Something Beyond Seeing
by MizzMarvel
Summary: In the aftermath of Day of Reckoning, Rogue is in serious need of being rescued. But who will REALLY save her? NEWLY UPDATED.
1. Blindness

Characters are not mine. But when I take over Marvel...that's a different story.  
  
  
  
  
Something Beyond Seeing  
  
  
  
  
Rogue stares. It's all she seems to be able to do lately. Lately. What is lately? She has no idea. For Rogue, the days consist of one streaming consciousness, incomplete and with no sunrises or sunsets. Everything is the same, here in small sterile cell with blinding white lights. Nothing changes, and Rogue stares on. How did she get here? The last thing she can recall is a giant robot, fighting, a boy with an exploding card. How long has she been here? A day, a week, a month, it's impossible to tell for certain. Why is she here? From time to time, men in lab coats and soldiers with guns come in and carefully extract her blood, taking it away for some unknown purpose. Funny, her blood has seen more of wherever she is than the rest of her. The men never speak to her, and Rogue knows now what a lab rat must feel like.  
  
She stares. There's nothing else to do, after all. At first, she clawed at the doors and walls, screaming until her voice turned into a hoarse wail and her arms were sticky-wet with blood from her broken fingernails. Now her eyes create silent, morphing pictures on the clean empty walls that she can never remember later. It doesn't matter.  
  
Common sense dictates that Rogue must be eating. She must be sleeping, and relieving herself, and moving around somehow, but she can't recall doing any of that. Sometimes, in her more coherent moments, she ponders this. Sleep, that's explainable. Sleep just happens. But there's no awakening either, no sudden jolt into life again. There is no hunger, no urgency to use the restroom, just the walls and her own clouded thoughts.   
  
Someone, she thinks. Someone is supposed to save me. No - us.  
  
Rogue fingers the metal collar around her throat, troubled by the idea. Who is "us"? The word itself indicates that there is someone else - or more, even - trapped somewhere in the building of mystery, whom she cares for enough to include them as an "us." She is sad for them; she is experiencing the abject loneliness and confusion they must know.   
  
And who is this "someone," the first one, her savior? There is a lingering feeling of certainty, that YES, this person must be coming. No doubts at all. She will be saved, along with the Us. Of course, that was before. Now she knows, knows for sure, that she and the Us have no way of escaping. Now she hates Someone and the false hope he inspired.   
  
...he? Interesting.  
  
Rogue rocks on her heels and smoothes the cloth covering her knees. She's wearing white like the walls, but it's off, sort of like...what's the word? The color? Ivory, yes. Everything in the little room is a different shade of white - the walls, the clothes, the skin that hasn't seen the sun in so long. Even the hair in front of her eyes used to be white, before it was shorn off. Like a lamb.   
  
I am a lamb, she thinks solemnly, piously. I am a sad, scared lamb.  
  
***  
  
Noise outside. She is jerked out of sleep, the first time she can remember wakening. Rumbling, whizzing, incoherent shouting. What's happening? Rogue huddles in the corner, crouched and questioning. The noise stops just outside her door. Then it opens.  
  
Rogue blinks against the stark darkness of the figure before her. Not a soldier, not a doctor - no coat, no gun, too thin. It must be Someone.   
  
"Ah'm sorry," she stammers, voice scratchy from disuse, surprised at her own accent. "Ah didn't think...long time, ya see...but now...ah'm sorry ah hated ya."  
  
Someone gasps. Or maybe it's not a gasp. Maybe it's a cough. Or a catch in his throat. Or a sob. He steps into her room  
  
Someone's hair is white. Ironic. He is so thin, and the dark circles under his eyes are so big; she wants to reach up and smooth the circles away. But it hurts to even look at him.  
  
"Rogue," he says, but it's almost a moan.  
  
Someone's name suddenly hits her. "Pietro."  
  
He holds out his hand to her. "Let's go. We need to hurry."  
  
She doesn't move. "Where?"  
  
"Home." Hesitantly, he grips her wrists in his hands and pulls her to her feet. Why so careful?  
  
"Mansion."  
  
"No, no..." Pietro's eyes are sad. "Another place now. Another home. Genosha."  
  
Then flash - they are gone.  
  
  
To be continued...  
  
  
**Author's Note - I don't really know where this is going. It just came to me. So what do you guys think? If no one really thinks much of it, I'll just stop here. But if I DO get a favorable response, then what the Hell? I'll see what I can do.** 


	2. Out of the Haze

When Rogue sees the big metal spheres waiting for them in the yard, she freezes, terrified. She can't quite recall what they're for, but she knows she doesn't want to get near them. Her feet are planted firmly on the ground in resistance, but Pietro is stronger than her. He pulls Rogue with him, and faster than fast he picks her up and places her inside one of them. The top closes, enveloping her in total darkness. The transition from blinding white to utter blackness is startling; she faints.  
  
***  
  
She regains consciousness as the top opens, but keeps her eyes shut, playing possum. There are a few short words, commands, in a voice she recognizes but a language that puzzles her, and then big, gentle hands reach into the sphere and lift her out of it. Rogue is held carefully in some unknown strong arms, like one would hold a baby, cradled against a broad chest. She can't resist quickly peeking.  
  
He's definitely a large man, but his face betrays him; he's really just a boy still. In the instant she lets her eyes open, all she can discipher of him is pale skin and dark eyes and hair, but even in that second he catches her. His eyes meet hers, and he bites his lip. She pretends to still be unconscious again, despite knowing for sure that he knows otherwise, but remarkably, he says nothing of it. Slowly, the boy-man carries her across the room.  
  
"What, she's FAINTED?" The same voice, now in English and somewhat disgusted. "The other ones made the trip."  
  
Other ones? The Us.  
  
"She's not as strong as them," another voice, Pietro this time, responds. It's not a disagreement so much as a suggestion.  
  
"Perhaps." Who is it? Rogue knows this voice, but can't place it.  
  
"How do we get the collar off her?" Pietro asks.  
  
"We don't. That dampens her abilities; with it on, she can't use her powers and she can't threaten the rest of us."  
  
"But..." If he was meaning to argue, Pietro doesn't finish.  
  
"Rogue will go upstairs, in the empty room. The others, downstairs." Then more words in a mysterious language, and whoever is carrying her begins to walk again.  
  
Oh, of course, she thinks. Of course I know who that is.  
  
Magneto.  
  
***  
  
Sunshine pouring out of her small window and into her lap. Later, there will be the moon and stars, then sunrise again. It's beautiful. Days have gone by, three of them (she can tell by the movements of the light or lack thereof in the sky) and Rogue has been remembering. It's much easier, it seems, to remember things in the bed of a musty room with natural light than one that constantly blinds and dazes. She recalls everything now, and it feels like tears choking her heart.  
  
Rogue runs her hand over her short hair over and over again, fascinated and perversed by the prickly sensation. She's never had to grow it from scratch before, not since she was a baby; she'll never take it for granted again.   
  
There's a knock at the door. There's no doubt who it is. It's only ever one person.  
  
"Come in," she calls softly.  
  
The door opens and Mr. McCoy, awkward with his huge shoulders and lumbering steps, comes in.  
  
"Hello, Rogue," he says, and smiles weakly. "Are you feeling any better?"  
  
"Yeah, mah head doesn't hurt so much an' stuff."  
  
He nods. "That's good. Then maybe today you can get up and around. Get the jist of things..." Mr. McCoy frowns slightly and looks down at the floor. "Since we're going to be here for a while."  
  
"Do ya know anything 'bout what's goin' on?" She is desperate for answers.  
  
He sighs. "Well, we're on Genosha, a large European island, but I really don't know anything about it other than that. Geography isn't my subject, you see. This place is just a house, a large one. I suppose we're in the country, since there are no other homes nearby. Magneto has it protected with an invisible forcefield." Mr. McCoy grins sheepishly. "I know because I made a break for it the first chance I got. It really stung, too. But otherwise, I think we're pretty much free to go around as we please."  
  
"Who else is here?"  
  
"You, Evan, Fred, and myself. Magneto and Pietro, of course, but they're usually in the basement with Sabertooth working on something. There are also the three other boys, his new team, and they seem to just putter around the premises all day. I haven't talked to them, but Spyke and Blob seem to have made friends with one."  
  
"So the boys are all right."  
  
"Evan was very weak, like you, at first. I think you two seemed like less of a threat to the doctors, so they extracted more blood from you than Fred or me. But he's fine now, yes."  
  
Rogue shakes her head, clearing her thoughts. "Ah can't believe this. It's so...weird."  
  
He laughs bitterly. "You're telling me." He pats her hand and starts towards the door. "I'm going downstairs to see what else I can find out. Try and see if you can make it to dinner, okay? It'll be in a few hours." Then Mr. McCoy is gone again.  
  
She sighs. It's weird.  
  
***  
  
The sun is a little closer to setting when Rogue finally wills herself out of bed. In the tiny closet, she finds some clothes, dark in color and rather too large for her, but she puts them on anyway; they're soft on her skin. The metal collar that inhibits her mutant powers feels chunky and conspicuous, loose and impossible to hide.  
  
She stares at the door for a few minutes, nervous. She had forgotten to ask Mr. McCoy how long they'd been captured, but apparently it was long enough to make her feel uneasy about venturing beyond her small enclosure.   
  
I've fought mutants jerks and giant robots, danced in front of the school in a play, she thought. I can do this. I can go outside.  
  
She walks to the door, puts her hand on the knob, takes a deep breath, opens it, and steps outside.  
  
"Hey," says the boy standing in the doorway directly in front of hers. "Welcome."  
  
To be continued...  
  
  
**Author's Note - Oooh, a cliffhanger! Who is the boy? We'll find out next time, I suppose...tell me what you guys think, as usual. This is getting harder and harder to write, and I need encouragement. But wow, I NEVER update this fast! I'm on a roll!** 


	3. First Contact

Rogue examines the boy silently for a few moments before answering, "Hey."  
  
Except for his shockingly bright red hair, he looks like a straw, extremely thin and somewhat tall. Even his face is long, with a pointed chin that he has raised, pointed at the girl before him. Leaning against the doorway, his arms are crossed and his eyes are filled with laughter. But she remembers him from before, with his fire, when his eyes were full of perverse adoration for the flames. She won't go near him.  
  
"We never thought you'd be comin' out," he says. Interestingly, he has an Australian accent. "We have a pool goin', in fact, on when we'd see you. Hey, what time is it?" He looks down at his wristwatch, apparently not really expecting an answer from her. "Gear! I won it! That means I get five pounds."  
  
Rogue is silent, studying him warily.  
  
"Oh, I'm St. John, by the way." He pronounces it "Sin Jin."  
  
She doesn't answer.  
  
"Huh. Not much of a conversationalist, I guess." He runs his hand across his hair before going on, "Well, okay. It's all right if you don't like me. But steer clear of Gambit. All he ever talks about is scoring with sheilas an' stuff. You maybe shouldn't trust him."  
  
"But I can trust YOU?" Rogue finally asks sarcastically.  
  
St. John grins wryly. "So NOW she speaks. Well..." He shifts his weight nervously and stares at his feet, suddenly uncomfortable. "Well, you don't need to worry about me. I'm not...I'm not really into GIRLS. Y'know?"  
  
Under normal circumstances, she probably wouldn't quite believe such a claim from a guy she just met, especially a guy who hasn't been around girls for a while and has something to gain from a female trusting him. But there's something in the way he carries himself, his stance, that tells her that St. John has known a certain kind of persecution before, a kind that has nothing to do with his being a mutant.  
  
"But don't tell the other guys, okay? I don't want them to think..." The desperate fear that flashes in his eyes confirms it for her.  
  
"Don't worry 'bout it," she says.  
  
A look of relief washes over his face, and his shoulders relax. "Thanks. And look, I'm sorry I just started in on you the first second you stepped out. It's just that I'm SO hungry for an intelligent convo, y'know? The boss an' his kid are always downstairs, Sabertooth scares the bejeezus out of me, Gambit's an ass, and the big guy can't even speak English. So then YOU guys show up, and the REALLY big guy - y'know, Freddy - an' Spyke kind of drifted over to Gambit right off (an' no offense, but they don't really seem the brightest bulbs anyway), an' the Beast is sort of standoffish, on his own. You're my last hope. I've been basically silent for the last couple of weeks or so, so now I'm just talking and talking and talking to you, an'...an' I guess I should stop now." He scratches his head.  
  
Inwardly, she smiles. "It's okay. Ah haven't really had anyone ta talk ta in a while either."  
  
"Yeah, you were in that Sentinel place. For, like, a month."  
  
"A month? Seriously?"  
  
"Since we fought, right? That was a little over a month ago."  
  
She has to place a hand against the wall, since she's suddenly dizzy. "A month. A whole month?" A chunk of her life has gone by, and she can't remember almost any of it. The thought occurs to her that anything could have happened to her, been done to her, during that time...it's terrifying.  
  
"Yes. Are you all right?" St. John cocks his head, a look of mild concern gracing his features.  
  
"Ah'm...yeah. Ah'm okay."  
  
"Uh, you sure? I could help you to your - "  
  
"NO! No, ah'm fine!" Rogue pictures him laughing with his fire, the mad glint in his eyes. She can't afford to trust him.  
  
"Well, um, jeez. Okay." His eyes widen slightly. "It's dinner time now. Could you go for some dinner? Would that be favorable with you?" Despite her outburst, there's still humor in his voice.  
  
"Dinner?" Involuntarily, her stomach rumbles. Loudly.  
  
"Heh. I guess so. C'mon." He walks down the hall, and she can hear him go down some stairs.  
  
She follows. He's right, after all.  
  
***  
  
"Okay," St. John says when they're in the kitchen. "Here's the deal. The meals are pretty simple 'round these parts." He stands next to a large microwave on a counter and pats it amiably. "This fella is our best friend. He cooks all the meals, see, since no o' us have any skills in the kitchen. And this lady..." St. John steps over to a huge metal refrigerator and opens the freezer compartment. "Is another fine mate. Full of tasty things." The freezer is packed with frozen meals, jammed from top to bottom. "I think tonight I'll partake of...Salisbury Steak. Mmm, in delicious liquidy stuff, too. Is it gravy or just brown water? The mystery makes my palate tingle in anticipation." He turns back to Rogue and grins a bit. "How about you? What's your pleasure?"  
  
"Um, ah dunno. Ah'm not, eh, well versed with frozen food."  
  
"I see. Well then, I would suggest the fried chicken dinner. A classic, it is." He takes a box from the middle of the stack, slams the door shut, and rips the package open. "Put it in the micro, press a few buttons..." He follows his own instructions. "An' dinner in a minute."  
  
"All the food's this kinda stuff?"  
  
"Oh, no, of course not. For breakfast we eat cold cereal."  
  
"God..."  
  
"No, I don't think so. If He were involved, I think the food'd be better."  
  
Rogue represses a smirk. There's something about St. John, who's tapping the counter in mock anticipation, that she likes. If things were different and he were maybe a new student at the Institute, she'd be the one showing him the ropes, the one trying desperately to make him feel at home despite how uncomfortable he may feel. Maybe she'd invite him to sit with her and Risty at lunch when he started school, being a fellow misfit and all. But that isn't the case at all.  
  
You can't trust him, she thinks. So don't. He's part of Magneto's team.  
  
The microwave dings. St. John reaches in and carefully takes out the plastic plate. "Lovely. Now do mine."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"I cooked yours, so you cook mine. Fair is fair, sheila."  
  
"Fine." In a few seconds, St. John's steak is steadily being nuked.  
  
"You're a natural. You'll eat just fine here."  
  
"Good to know."  
  
From outside the kitchen, footsteps slowly make their way towards the door. Rogue's eyes widen, and she nervously grips the edge of the counter. Who is it this time? Someone else to deal with now. She turns to watch the door.  
  
"Eh, don't worry about it," St. John remarks lightly, eyes never leaving the microwave's timer. "It's only the Russian."  
  
  
To be continued...  
  
  
**Author's Note - I'm sorry. Obviously, I'm ill-equipped to do an Australian accent. Don't expect much better when I have to do Russian. It's just a lost cause. I'm not entirely pleased with this chapter, so if you guys like it, please smother me with compliments so I can get my confidence back in time for Chapter 4. I've discovered I love St. John, though. Oh, and I realize that most writers just call him John. And that's fine. It's a more realistic name, after all. I would just like to point out to everyone that St. John is a really cool name.** 


	4. Slight Discomfort

The Russian is the boy who had so gently carried her from a metal sphere several days before. When he walks into the kitchen, he halts for a moment, apparently not expecting anyone to be there, and stares at Rogue and St. John placidly. His gaze lingers on her for a few seconds longer than comfortable before making his way to one of the wooden cabinets. He opens it, and pulls out a box of Cheerios.  
  
"Funny guy," St. John continues, still watching his food cook. "He eats cereal for every meal. You'd think a guy his size'd need more calories." The microwave dings. "Ah, dinner!" He eagerly pulls out the tray.  
  
"What's his real name?" Rogue asks, trying not to watch him as he poured his cereal into a bowl.  
  
"Magneto calls him Colossus." At the sound of his codename, the Russian looks up at the two, puzzled and waiting. St. John shakes his head apologetically and adds, "It's nothin', mate. Sorry." He shrugs. The Russian nods slowly, and heads for the refrigerator for milk.  
  
"But what's his name? His real name, ah mean?"  
  
"I dunno."   
  
She frowns. "Ya 'dunno'? He's yer teammate an' ya don't even know his name?"  
  
He sighs. "He doesn't speak ENGLISH. The only one of us who can talk to him is Magneto, an' even he's limited to basic commands. 'Sides, the Russian keeps to 'imself. He hasn't volunteered any info, y'know?"  
  
"Ah can't believe that," Rogue says, watching the bigger boy pour milk into his bowl. "He musta tried ta say SUMTHIN' 'bout himself." He returns the carton to its place.  
  
"Well..." St. John answers, mirth entering his voice again. "I've been talkin' to YOU for a while now, an' I don't even know YOUR name."  
  
Her face reddens, and without her usual mask of pale foundation, she knows it's obvious.   
  
"Ah'm Rogue."  
  
"All right, then, Rogue. You didn't even realize you hadn't told me, didja? Well, maybe neither does he. Only I can't ever so gently point that out to 'im like I did to you."  
  
The Russian, with his bowl of Cheerios, leaves the kitchen as silently as he'd entered it, uninterested in whatever they might be saying.  
  
"He's got a good idea," St. John goes on. "Let's eat these things before they congeal into a glob of fat an' water." He holds his tray of microwaved Salisbury steak, and raises an eyebrow. "Comin'? Everyone usually eats in the quote-unquote 'dinin' room'."  
  
She picks up her own tray. "Ah guess so." What else can she do, after all?  
  
He walks out of the kitchen. She follows.  
  
***  
  
The dining room, as it is called, is essentially a room with a big oak table and some chairs. Nothing fancy and no frills; it couldn't be any more different from the Mansion's dining room, with ornate carvings in the furniture and a chandelier dangling from the ceiling. When the two enter, it's already occupied - the Russian is eating his Cheerios dinner by himself at the far end of the table, and Evan, Fred, and another young man sitting and talking, the remnants of their meals pushed aside. The instant she sets foot inside, in fact, the new mystery boy stands up and addresses them:  
  
"Who dis?" he asks playfully, a sly smile on his lips.  
  
He's the one who, during the conflict, had handed her a playing card. He had surprised her, then dumbfounded her when he did not attack, handing her the King of Hearts with a silent smirk. All that, the combination of it with his mute charm, had transfixed her to the point that she barely realized in time that the card was going to explode in her grasp. The memory of it embarrasses her, and she has to will herself not to blush again.  
  
St. John frowns slightly, but says, "This is Rogue. Rogue, this is, eh, Remy...Gambit." He emphasizes the codename, obviously trying to remind her of his earlier warning.  
  
Remy's eyes narrow slightly, but his smile remains the same. "M' pleasure."  
  
"Yeah," she replies dully.  
  
He waves a hand in the direction of the table. "Sit."  
  
So Rogue and St. John sit. Remy does the same.  
  
"You feeling better, Rogue?" Evan asks, the first time she's heard him speak in a while. She's grateful for his familiar face, though he's different, still. His hair has begun to grow out of its fancy cut and golden dye, black at the roots. He's also wearing a collar like hers.  
  
She nods. "A little." She pushes around the mashed potatoes on her tray with her fork.  
  
"Well, petite, ya LOOKIN' fine." Remy's words have a taint of suggestiveness in their sympathy, but she decides to ignore it.  
  
"Where's Mr. McCoy?" she asks Evan.  
  
"Outside, but I don't know why. He already ate, I guess."  
  
"Yeah, heh heh," Fred chimes in. "The force field thing already fried him once." Like, Evan his hair has grown out, now somewhat resembling a crew cut.  
  
"We can go outside, though? We don't hafta ask?"  
  
Remy shakes his head. "Naw. Ya jus' go."  
  
Rogue stands up. "Ah'm goin' outside, then."  
  
St. John looks up from his food. "Outside? But...jeez. I mean, I think you should eat. Y'know?"  
  
"Hey, she a big girl, mon ami. She wanna go, she goes," the Cajun tells him, the grin still there, but eyes narrowed further, almost accusingly.  
  
St. John rolls his eyes. "Whatever."  
  
But Rogue's already gone.  
  
***  
  
The second she's out, Rogue takes a deep breath and outstretches her arms, relieved at the wide expanse of space and quiet. Mr. McCoy is nowhere in sight, but that doesn't matter. She really just wanted to get away from the sudden onslaught of human contact anyway.  
  
The sky now only holds a few random spatterings of pink, and crescent moon shines peacefully down on the large yard outside the house. She turns slowly all the way around, taking in her surroundings for the first time. The house, it turns out, it a rather large one of Victorian style, in need of a paint job. She wonders why Magneto would choose such a place as his head quarters, then realizes that it's an excellent cover; after a castle in Europe and a huge metal dome in the Sahara, who'd suspect him to be in such a humble place? The yard itself consists of a somewhat shaggy lawn, some wild flowers here and there, and a few big trees. There's a scent in the air, a pleasant one, but she can't place it...  
  
"That's the sea you smell," a voice from behind her confirms.  
  
Rogue turns to see who it is, but she really doesn't have to. Pietro, so thin and obviously tired. Her Someone.  
  
"If you were to walk up the hill," he continues, pointing off in a direction. "You'd see it a bit. It's pretty nice." He's silent for a moment, then goes on, watching her intently, "You're okay?"  
  
She nods and fingers her collar self-consciously. "Yes."  
  
"Good, 'cause when you...when I first saw you, you were kinda out of it." Pietro looks away. "I was worried."  
  
She doesn't answer.  
  
"I...I want you to know..." He shakes his head. "I should go. I only came out here for a quick break." And then he's off again.  
  
Though he's going too fast to actually watch him, Rogue stares off in the direction he left.   
  
Why, she thinks sadly. Why'd you set us up?  
  
  
To be continued...  
  
  
**Long Authors Note:  
  
Thought I'd respond to some of the reviews...  
  
Rio - Ha, thanks for the "shower." I really needed it.  
  
Icy - I've never churned out material this fast before, but it's so far not as hard as I thought. Maybe it's because I'm pacing myself in the story, I dunno. Oh, and you (and probably Rio, too) should like what was being suggested in that last bit of the fic.  
  
The Scribe - Scott, Lance, Kitty, and all the rest are probably at the remnants of the Mansion, dealing with the fact that the secret's out. I have no idea what they're doing, really. This fic is only going to deal with Magneto's new team, and those who were captured by Trask's forces.  
  
LotusPen and Kitana - I think Pyro and Rogue would make a pretty good couple, too. His genuine sense of humor (at least the one I've given him) helps him deal with her attitude with a grain of salt - this is also possibly why Kurt and Rogue get along so well. However...not in this fic. I had several reasons for making him gay. For one, Rogue is in a house full of guys, and it was a way to immediately eliminate one romantic possibility. Two, I know what romance will eventually emerge, and I didn't want to be tempted astray. Three, the fact that she's without her powers is probably very scary to her, and it doesn't help that all these men are around...she needs someone she KNOWS doesn't have to worry about - at least THAT way. Kitana, sorry about the last bit, which has tinges of Rietro...  
  
Randi - I think when I was IMing you, at one point I said something about finding a character I loved. St. John is it. I don't know why, but of all the characters, even the ones already completely established in the show, he is the most clearly defined in my mind. So I'm glad you like him, too! There'll be more interaction with the other characters, like Evan and Gambit, in the coming chapters. I myself am not exactly sure how they'll deal with each other. Oh, and Logan isn't here. I decided that'd be a little too much for me to handle.  
  
Thanks to them and everyone else who responded to my plea for compliments - they really helped, and thus this is so far my favorite chapter. If you want more quality and fast, you'll keep 'em coming. ;) ** 


	5. Eyes of Fire

When Rogue awakes the next morning, the house is still and quiet. She is also hungry, having skipped dinner the night before. As noiselessly as possible, she slips out of bed and pulls on the clothes she finds in her closet. Outside, she sees when she glances out the window, a thick fog from the sea has rolled in and covers the yard and garden.  
  
Wearing no shoes, she leaves her room, tiptoeing past St. John's closed door and down the stairs. There is a slight panic when she is faced with two identical doors, and realizes that she's not sure which one leads to the kitchen; she doesn't want to stumble into one of the boys' bedrooms or anything, after all. After a minute or so of mental debate, she decides on door number two and is pleased to find she chose correctly. She pours herself a bowl of cereal (Raisin Bran) and makes her way into the dining room.  
  
He's sitting in there already, at this early hour. The Russian, with his bowl of cereal. At the sound of her entering, he looks up, but quickly breaks eye contact, staring down into his breakfast. She sits down at the front of the table, the farthest away she can be from him without actually leaving the room. If the Russian's offended by this, he makes no sign of it.  
  
Eating her food, Rogue tries not to think of anything. She's trying not to think of what happened a month ago, and the betrayal of one of her best friends. She's trying not to think of the time she can barely remember, her shorn hair, the metal collar around her neck that makes her feel like an animal, Mr. McCoy alone and distant somewhere outside. She tries not to think about anything, and it's working. When her bowl is empty, Rogue continues to sit, watching listlessly into it as if all the answers will appear there is she waits long enough.  
  
She has no idea how long she's been sitting there with the spoon gripped loosely in her hand, when she feels a touch on her shoulder, light as the wind. Involuntarily, Rogue flinches and jumps, twisting instantly around to see who it is. It is the Russian, his face serene and understanding. He scoops her bowl into his big hand and goes into the kitchen, a mute act of kindness.  
  
Seconds pass before Rogue finds her voice. "Thanks," she whispers, but it's too late for him to hear.  
  
***  
  
After a while, Rogue goes back up to her room without ever having seen anyone else. But spending the day staring out of her window doesn't make the time speed by faster. She watches the fog disperse, the sun rise higher in the sky, and from time to time Mr. McCoy lurking in the yard. She counts the cracks in the ceiling and the individual floorboards, rifles through the few drawers and the closet. Sometime after noon, she sees things with a sudden clarity.   
  
I will go out of my mind, she realizes. If I do this for even one minute longer.  
  
Still not knowing anyone else's whereabouts, she once again opens her door, but this time does not go down the stairs. Instead, she walks straight ahead across the hall and, hesitating slightly, knocks on the door.  
  
"Come in," St. John calls from inside.  
  
Before she can decide to otherwise, Rogue barges into his room and asks, "What do ya guys do ta make the days go bah?"  
  
He's stretched across his bed fully clothed, feet dangling over the side. When she speaks, he looks up from the thick book balanced in his hands and grins.  
  
"Well, look who it is! Y'know, in your absence I've awarded ya the title of Miss Congeniality. Your crown's in the mail. But you asked a question...well, I don't know what the others do, the boys, I mean. Maybe they help Gambit pick off his body lice. But I, well, I read. And try to write from time to time."  
  
"Try ta?"  
  
"I'm not very successful, you see."  
  
"But ya read?" Trying to seem as casual as possible, Rogue rocks slightly on her heels and pretends to inspect a poster of Sydney, Australia thumb-tacked to the wall.  
  
"Sure."  
  
"And...and, ya have books?"  
  
St. John laughs. "Oh, so THAT'S what ya want, then? And here I was thinking you over here to admire my gorgeous late-adolescent body. Well, I'm somewhat relieved, for, eh, certain reasons."  
  
Rogue's mouth twitches into a small, uneasy smile. "Actually, ah was figurin' that ah could do both at the same time."  
  
He's obviously delighted. "A sense of humor, and a good one! Rogue, you've just become my best friend."  
  
But suddenly she's reminded again of his other side, the glee in his eyes at the sight of his own flame, and she's scared, not only at the possible danger he presents, but the fact that she likes him in spite of this. Really, she shouldn't be enjoying the company of ANY if these people other than her own team mates; it would almost be like another betrayal if she did. But Mr. McCoy told her that they'd be there for a while, who knows how long, and to distance herself from everyone just isn't possible. Even a so-called "loner" like herself needs friends. She just has to trust them, though. That's the difficult part.  
  
I can't dance around this forever, she thinks.  
  
"St. John," she says softly. "Ah remember our, uh, our conflict...ya make fire, dontcha?"  
  
His face suddenly becomes sober and uneasy. "Yeah."  
  
"An' yer different with the fire."  
  
He looks away. "Yeah."  
  
"Tell me 'bout it."  
  
St. John sighs heavily. "It's hard."  
  
"Life is hard."  
  
He turns sharply and looks at her silently for a moment before replying, "I know. Okay, jeez. Well, I...I was always one o' those kinds who played with matches, y'know? Even though yer parents told ya not to? I just liked to watch the flames - they were so beautiful, absolutely relentless and uncontrollable. My fingers were always burned, but it was okay. It felt like a fair trade to me, beauty for pain."  
  
St. John gets off his bed and stands near his window, back to Rogue, and continues, "Then I started to burn things. First paper, later other stuff...I liked to see 'em melt. But a couple of years ago, I burned down part of our garage on accident. It really was an accident! I got sent to shrinks an' stuff, to fix up my mind an' whatever made me like fire, an' eventually I was okay. When my...abilities manifested, though, I could make fire and control it! How ironic. Or unfortunate, I can never remember which. Well, to make an already long story short, it's kinda hard to keep myself under control when I'm surrounded in flames. Y'know? But that's why they call me Pyro." He turns back to her and his eyes are red-rimmed and anxious.  
  
"But other than fightin'," Rogue says slowly. "Yer okay? Yer not like that?"  
  
His laugh this time sounds like a hiccup. "Rogue, I really CAN cook. I just won't let m'self near the stove."  
  
It's her turn to sigh this time. "St. John, ever since ah woke up a couple a days ago, ah've been tellin' mahself, don't trust anyone, don't trust anyone. In mah head, ah know ah'm right."  
  
"Oh," he replies, all of his former humor vanished. "I get it."  
  
Now she thinks, and she wants to think. She has to. She thinks of being alone in her room for days, with only Mr. McCoy coming up from time to time with a bowl of soup. She thinks of Evan and Fred somewhere in the house, knowing she's weak and scared, but not visiting her, not supporting her, not assuring her that they're with her. She thinks of the skinny redhead across the hall who managed to ignore her sullen distant behavior with a laugh, trying his best to show her the ropes and even protect her.  
  
"But ah'm gonna anyway," Rogue goes on. "'Cause right now, yer mah best friend too."  
  
He stands in shocked silence, before whispering, "Thank you."  
  
  
To be continued...  
  
  
**Author's Note:  
  
Randi - Jeez, I know what you mean. If I had all the X-Men or Brotherhood in this fic, my head would probably explode from the effort of writing them all. You're doing an excellent job juggling them all in Seether, though. AND WHAT WAS UP WITH THE ENDING OF THE NEW X-TREME X-MEN?? Have you seen it??  
  
Darkfire - Rogue will end up with somebody, but not yet. At some point. And don't rule Pietro out...people who've read some of my other fics know I'm a Rietro fan. But really, he could be anyone, excluding Pyro, of course. I mentioned the possibility of them being together in the context of another fic, not this one. Here he's gonna stay gay. Hey, that rhymes...  
  
LotusPen - I'm extremely pleased that people are liking my St. John. So hopefully you're happy with this chapter, which has a lot of Pyro (though he becomes somewhat serious) and even some Piotr, too!   
  
I'm still working with reasonable speed...I hope I can keep up the pace. Here's a question I have of myself - why does St. John dislike Remy so much? Hmmm...I guess I'll have to keep writing and find out!** 


	6. Some Kind of Normalcy

In the middle of the night, Rogue will find herself sitting up in bed gasping, her lungs burning and her face hot. A nightmare, a recurring nightmare. It must be. What other cause can there be? But no matter how long she thinks on it, she never remember her dream.  
  
She's gotten quite used to not remembering.  
  
***  
  
Rogue has been up and about in the house for over a week now and the realness of the situation has sunken in. She can get up in the morning and not be surprised by her surroundings, not wonder why she can't hear Kitty breathing in the other bed. She shares a noiseless breakfast every morning with the Russian and laughs with St. John in the afternoon and evening. Every once in a while, she'll look out her window and see Evan, Fred, and Remy lounging on the grass talking or running around playing some game.   
  
"Why are ya always out in the yard?" she asks Mr. McCoy early one evening.  
  
"I'm restless, I suppose." He points past the trees to a dark brown post standing stuck in the ground. "Do you see that post? Well, that's the limit to as far as we can travel. There are a bunch of them, circling the premises. Going past them means meeting up with the force field, which is..." His face carries a grim smile, remembering. "No fun at all. And no use. I just need space to move around, run and jump. It's the Beast in me."  
  
She understands what he says completely, though perhaps in a different way than he means. This old house on Genosha is a far cry from the Mansion or even the Brotherhood of Bayville Boarding House, places where she could come and go as she pleased, within reason. She could go to school or just out somewhere else and pretend for a while, play at a faux normalcy. Here, her housemates and the collar on her throat are constant reminders of her inherent strangeness.  
  
As the sun is going down, she imagines she can see a faint glimmer of the sea.  
  
***  
  
Magneto, Sabertooth, and Pietro are always downstairs, working on some mysterious project. Once or twice, as she's walking down a hall, she feels a sudden breeze and knows it is Quicksilver, speeding past and avoiding her. She wonders what they're planning and asks St. John what he knows about it.  
  
"I don't know much of ANYTHING," he admits, shrugging his shoulders. "I don't know how he found us, even. He was just standin' on the porch one day, sayin' he knew all about me and my powers, how my dealing with 'em in secret was hurtin' my parents. The next thing I knew, I was with him an' Sabertooth an' Gambit an' the Russian, learnin' how to fight an' control these powers."  
  
"So yer just here 'cause he said ya should?"  
  
He ponders this for a moment before answering, "No. No, I honestly believe that he's right, to some extent at least. I think the deal with mutants is gonna be that either we attain great power quick or we get none at all. Personally, I'd MUCH rather be part of the former. I mean, look at the track record humanity's had with different people so far. It's not very good. And, well, I know you don't agree with Magneto at all, an' that's all right. But when I'm a high-ranking official in Magneto's all-mutant, all-powerful regime, I'll make sure you're not punished as harshly as the rest of Xavier's team."  
  
She bursts out laughing. "Oh really?"  
  
"Yeah, I'll set somethin' up for ya. You can be my scullery maid, maybe."  
  
"Well, when all ya guys're imprisoned for terrorism, ah'll come by an' visit ya. Ah'll bring a cake."  
  
"Okay. Just remember, I like cream cheese frosting."  
  
"Ah'll make note of it."  
  
***  
  
She sits on the lawn with the boys, the Russian excluded, naturally. They toss a small purple ball from person-to-person, making a casual game of it. St. John is with them, but won't participate, keeping his head down and playing with the individual blades of grass, only making sarcastic comments; he's there strictly for moral support, for Rogue.  
  
"Ya from de South, girl?" Remy asks her as he passes the ball to Fred.  
  
"Brilliant deduction," St. John mutters under his breath so only Rogue can hear. "Since the accents of the American South and Manchester, England are so similar and all."  
  
She suppresses a grin and answers, "Yeah. Mississippi."  
  
"Dat close ta Nawlins."  
  
"Sure. Ah've been there."  
  
"Mebbe ya see me."  
  
"Ah don't think so."  
  
"What, you didn't?" St. John mutters again. "Isn't Gambit in the tourist handbooks, under the listing Cajun Casanova?"  
  
Remy scowls and turns to him for a second. "Ya say somethin', homme?"  
  
"WHAT did you call me?" St. John's voice is suddenly high-pitched and loud.  
  
"He called ya 'homme'," Rogue says gently, putting a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "It means 'man."   
  
"Well, jeez," he murmurs, concentrating on the grass again.  
  
"So ANYWAY," Remy says. "Ya like it here, chere?" He scoots a little closer to Rogue.  
  
"It's all right," she answers, and moves away a bit.  
  
"Hey Evan, pass ME the ball," St. John says with a strained smile.  
  
"But it's Rogue's turn!" Evan answers, slightly taken aback by the proposal to break the unspoken rules.  
  
"Pass it to me. I want in."  
  
Evan shrugs and tosses it to him. St. John then throws it to Rogue, who throws it to Remy, and so forth.  
  
The Cajun leans in closer to Rogue again. "An' ya havin' fun?" He's practically purring.  
  
"Um, yeah," she replies, looking away. "As much as possible, anyway."  
  
"Want Remy ta make it more fun?" He raises an eyebrow and grins again.  
  
At that instant, the hard blue ball smacks Remy directly in the face. His eyes widen in surprise and he clamps his hands over his nose, which begins to bleed. He faces St. John and shouts:  
  
"He, he do dat on purpose!!" His face is red with rage.  
  
St. John throws his hands up helplessly. "Jeez, I'm sorry, Rem! I was trying to pass it to Rogue. Maybe you shouldn't've been so close." There is an edge to his last words.  
  
Remy jumps up and screams, pointing a finger at the other boy, "Aw, you gon' get it for dis!" He stalks off to the house, still holding his nose, with Evan and Fred following.  
  
"Ah guess the game's over," Rogue remarks. St. John nods in agreement.  
  
***  
  
That night she wakes up sweating again, and leans her cheek on the coolness of the empty wall against her bed. It takes a while to catch her breath, and tears comes to her eyes. She wants to sigh, but it would hurt too much. Sweating, she leans over to the window and opens it, letting the salty breeze from the ocean drift in.  
  
Downstairs in garden, she sees, stands the lone figure of Pietro, staring up forlornly at her window.  
  
  
To be continued...  
  
  
**Author's Note:  
  
Randi - I think the last chapter's scene with Piotr is one of my better works. I'm glad that's what you gathered from all of it, since that's what I intended! Oh, and yeah, I was referring to the July 23 issue of X-Treme.  
  
LotusPen - Grrr, YOU should write a Pyro/Rogue! You'd do a great job! At the moment, though, I just can't, unless you want a delay in this fic...? ;)  
  
Caramia - Fanfiction wins almost every time.  
  
Demonica - Gay guys ARE cool, aren't they? And here's a teeny taste of Rietro for you.  
  
Phoenix - Tsk, leave it to you to figure out something I hadn't thought of...IN MY OWN FIC!! But it's brilliant, nonetheless, the idea that Rogue may know a little Russian herself...I may have to use it to my advantage. (If I can, that is...I've been trying to find some simple Russian words in the English alphabet, but it's almost impossible. All I have is this huge list of dirty words, which were the only things I knew in the first place. Piotr may have some colorful language coming up.)  
  
General notes on Pyro - A couple of people (Darkfire and Randi) pointed out that Pyro doesn't really make fire. Yeah, he just controls it psionically. I had a couple of reasons for changing this, but what it all boils down to is that, in my mind, to keep him a sypathetic character he HAD to create his flame. Don't ask my reasoning here; most likely someone will just find holes in my ideas anyway. On the Gambit situation, I don't think he turned down St. John in the past because, for one, St. John seems shy about his sexuality and wouldn't be likely to hit on anyone,especially a teammate. The more I think of it, the more I think the reason he so dislikes Remy is either one of two reasons: 1) he has an unrequited attraction to him (which I believe was also suggested by a few reviewers), or 2) he's resentful of Gambit's macho womanizing attitude, taking offense to it. Maybe he's even said some offensive things about homosexuals. In this chapter, for instance, Gambit calls St. John 'homme' and Pyro seems to think he's being called something less nice. Of course, Pyro could just be touchy.  
  
Another general note - since a couple people have asked about it, I'm starting an update email list. If you want to know when this fic (or any of my other ones) are updated, give me your email address and I'll put you on it. ** 


	7. Frustration

If he weren't my friend, Rogue thinks, I'd say he was absolutely nuts. She pushes away the threatening and persistent concept that, in fact, he may no longer BE her friend.  
  
Pietro squints up at the window and, apparently spotting her looking down on him, his face brightens. He beckons her to quickly go downstairs to him, mouthing come here, come here. She shakes her head stubbornly, unwilling to brave the outside in place that she's still a stranger to. He sighs heavily and is suddenly gone. Seconds later, there's a soft knock at the door.  
  
She stares at the door, blinking, before she says quietly, "Come in."  
  
And he does so, first peeking in the top of his head and the his face, then his neck and shoulders and the rest of him in a slinky movement that reminds her of a snake. Trying to avoid making any noise, he shuffles over to her bed and stands by it awkwardly, hands on his hips. Rogue sits up all the way and pulls her blanket closer, attempting to make the act look casual and lack motive. But Pietro notices, and winces.  
  
"Rogue," he says. "You don't...you don't have to worry about me, okay?" His eyes loom large in his thin face, hurt. "I wouldn't..."  
  
"Ah know," Rogue breaks in. "Ah...it's an instinct thing."  
  
He nods. "I guess that makes sense. In this context, anyway." He stares at her for a moment before going on, "Your hair looks longer."  
  
She reaches up and pulls it a little, trying to measure its length by touch. "Really?"  
  
"Yeah." Pietro smiles weakly. "Maybe we should call you Rapunzel." He crosses his arms in front of him and shifts his weight from one foot to the other. "Look, I'm sorry I haven't really been around. I've been helping, uh, my father..."  
  
"With what?"  
  
He sighs again. "You KNOW I can't tell you that..."  
  
"Hmmm." She looks away.  
  
"Don't do that to me, Rogue!" He sounds like he's pleading. "Please."  
  
"Do what?" She knows she's being difficult and cold, but she doesn't really know what else to do. Assure him that's it's okay with her that they're being held captive in this house? Jump up and give him a big hug? Talk about the good old days in the Brotherhood? Besides, she FEELS cold and difficult, just thinking about his role in her situation.  
  
"Dammit!" His voice is as loud as possible without threatening to disturb anyone else. "Sometimes you act just like Jean and Kitty and Tabitha, just like all the other girls! But you're NOT! You're different from them, you're better, so ACT like it. Talk to me and let me talk to you."  
  
"Ah'm sorry," she says.  
  
"Don't be. Don't be sorry."  
  
"Are YOU sorry?"  
  
Pietro hesitates, then answers simply, "He's my father."  
  
"That's not an answer."  
  
"It's the only one I have." He shrugs. "This isn't going like I wanted. I need to get some sleep anyway..."  
  
Pietro's not standing there anymore.  
  
So much for us being able to talk to each other, she thinks.  
  
***  
  
In the morning, Rogue catches the Russian sneaking looks at her as they eat. It's not the first time, either. Every once in a while, from the corner of her eye, she'll find him stealing quick glances at her from over his cereal bowl. Then when she lifts her head, his face turns red and he ducks, shoving another mouthful of food into his mouth.  
  
At first, it bothered her. It bothered her very, very much. She thought briefly of telling St. John about it, but immediately vetoed that idea; he freaks out enough just dealing with Gambit. He doesn't need to feel like he should protect her from another guy, this one a couple times bigger than he is. So she's kept it to herself.  
  
Rogue's still a bit worried by his benign attention, though he hasn't tried to do anything past looking. The Russian, for the most part, ignores everyone, including her. She knows that his room is downstairs, like those of all the boys other than St. John, across from where Fred and Evan sleep, and stays there for most of every day. She wonders sometimes what he does there, if he misses talking to people whenever he wants, and smiling. He hardly ever smiles.  
  
But of course, neither does she.  
  
***  
  
That afternoon, around lunch time, when she walks into the kitchen, she's surprised to find Remy there. Luckily for St. John, his nose hadn't been broken, but is still slightly swollen. He runs his fingers across it gently, wincing at the tenderness, but when he sees her enter he drops his hand and grins.  
  
"Hey," he says.  
  
"Hey." Rogue walks past him without a second look and opens the refrigerator, considering her meal options.  
  
"Ya tell ya frien' he better stay 'way," he tells her, voice a little more hardened than she's heard before.  
  
She doesn't look at him when she answers, "Ah can't tell him what ta do." She pulls her choice out of the fridge and walks over to the microwave.  
  
"Den he jus' better KNOW." Remy walks over and stands next to her. "Ah think he jealous."  
  
She snorts. "Jealous? Of what?"  
  
"Me." He leans forward, closer to her, and winks. "'Cause he never gon' win ya. Don' have the looks."  
  
Rogue would very much like to tell him how right he is and yet how completely wrong at the same time. She can picture his wide-eyed surprise, mouth slack. Maybe then he'd leave and just let her make lunch. But of course not; she could never do that to St. John.  
  
"Ah think he's nice-lookin'," she answers innocently. "He's tall."  
  
Remy rolls his eyes and crosses his arms across his chest. "Dat all he got. Not like Remy." He grins again.  
  
"Huh," she answers, trying to passively end the conversation.  
  
"Ah think we'd make a good team."  
  
"Hmmm."  
  
"C'mon," he says, voice irritated and louder. "Talk ta me!" He sounds like Pietro earlier, only she KNOWS Pietro, knows he means no harm. Remy grabs her by the wrist and pulls her to him, eyes narrowed.  
  
"Don't touch me!" she cries, like so many times before, but now it has nothing to with her powers absorbing his.  
  
He doesn't let go, and he's stronger than her. "Then talk ta me!" he hisses.  
  
"Izvinite," a voice says from the kitchen door.  
  
They both turn quickly and find the Russian there, standing so tall and disapproving. He stares at Remy menacingly. Gambit drops her wrist and simply stomps out the door, brushing past the other boy.  
  
"Styervo," the Russian mutters as he watches him go.  
  
Rogue takes her wrist in her other hand and rubs it, tears threatening. Since the moment she manifested them, she'd resented her powers; they kept her so distant from the rest of the world. But now she yearns for them, for whatever protection she can have from whatever dangers that present themselves.  
  
Still shaken, she looks up at the Russian and murmurs, "Thanks."  
  
He nods slowly, as if he understands (and he might), and heads to the cereal cabinet.  
  
Finding herself no longer hungry, Rogue hurriedly leaves the room and goes up the stairs.  
  
She realizes that she had never heard the Russian speak before.  
  
  
To be continued...  
  
  
**Author's Note:  
  
Randi - Yeah, I really doubt that Gambit would be a homophobe in any way; St. John was probably just being touchy about that bit. I mean, Gambit IS from New Orleans, after all. (Wait...so is my Grandpa. Uh, forget that last statement.) In the last chapter, Remy especially didn't mean any harm by his attentions; St. John was the one actually being a jerk. I think he takes his self-appointed role as Rogue's Protector very seriously. In fact, even in this chapter, while definitely not acting like a harmless flirt, I'd say Remy only freaked out when she wouldn't communicate. It's no excuse, of course, but he's not a total bad guy.   
  
DarkFire/kitana - Well, here's Piotr as a knight in shining armour! You like?   
  
Phoenix - Why thank you! Hahahaha...shmeal. What a great word.  
  
LotusPen - Like Randi suggested for the last chapter, if St. John is jealous of ANYONE, it's Rogue!  
  
evolutionary spider - Hey, real questions...1) It'll be something all right. But if I tell you, it wouldn't be a surprise. 2) That's a good idea, but Rogue has that collar on, inhibiting her powers. I never really thought she liked the idea of absorbing Kitty anyway. 3) I know, and it's bothering me, too. I'm trying to figure out how to bring them into the fic more, but it's hard. I'm not really a Fred or Evan fan, so it's hard to write for them. 4) Thank you. 5) Part A, Shhhhh! Part B, If Beast was going to go insane, I think he would've done it by now.  
  
NiteQueen - I thought I was the only one who said okie dokie artichokie!! Oh wait...you weren't being serious, were you? Everyone forget I ever said that...  
  
The next chapter will be up soon, once I figure out what'll happen in it. Jeez, this is getting harder...Oh, by the way, the Russian Piotr said translates as: "Excuse me" and "Bastard." A million thanks go out to Krystal, who sent me a few links dealing with Russian.** 


	8. Different Types of Dreams

Rogue has begun to hang out in St. John's room a lot. It's safe there, or at least feels like it. Plus, it really is filled with books. His small bookcase it crammed full, they're piled on his desk and chair, and fill a few boxes under his bed. Battered paperback romances, pristine classics in dust jackets, plays that just consist of a bunch of photocopied pages stapled together. He has a bit of everything, and more.  
  
She lounges on the floor, reading Kafka, while St. John is stretched across his bed with a pen and a pad of paper, trying to write. Occasionally, he'll sigh, rip off a sheet, crumple it up, and toss it to the floor.  
  
"So this Gregor Samsa guy," she asks him, though her eyes are still glued to the book. "He just wakes up lahk this? Lahk some bug?"  
  
"Hey, it's not totally unbelievable..." St. John answers, somewhat distracted. "I mean, you haven't seen ME in the early morning yet..."  
  
"It IS kinda lahk us, though," she goes on thoughtfully. "One day we're just normal kids, the next we're freaks with powers and everyone's 'fraid of us..." She thinks about the newspapers she's found lying around the house, with articles about mutants that range from saying mutants are just another link in the evolutionary chain to declaring them inhuman monsters, abominations to God.   
  
"Miss Analytical..." he mutters in response. "Go join a university, why dontcha." He sits up and tosses her the pad of paper, which smacks her in the arm. She looks up and scowls at him. "Sorry. Would ya read it and tell me what ya think?"  
  
"Sure," she says. She begins to read:  
  
"It looked like a 'What Doesn't Belong In This Scene?' picture, he being barely more than a boy and looking like an angel. He had hair that was the color of the near-setting sun, eyes like the high-noon sky, and almost translucent ivory skin. He belonged at a girlfriend's house, or at a school dance, or at the Gap, not in the damp, dank alleys of Sydney, which were filled with the smell of rancid food and the shrill squeaks of rats being pounced on by rabid cats. But it was he who decided he should be there. With the other vermin, the boy told himself.  
  
"He walked for hours, simply thinking, and waiting. On his fourth time walking down a certain ally, he stumbled upon something. Looking down, he saw..."  
  
At that, St. John's story stops. "But what did he see?" Rogue asks.  
  
St. John groans. "Well, that's where it gets hard...where the story really STARTS. The place where I always lose where I'm goin'."  
  
"Too bad," she remarks. "Ah lahk what there is."  
  
"Yeah? Jeez. Now you're forcin' me to spend more than five minutes on somethin'. Thanks a lot." He's trying to sound sarcastic, but underneath there's indication that he's actually pleased.  
  
"Is Sydney really lahk that? Dark an' dirty?"  
  
"Naw. I just needed a city people'd recognize. I was really describin' the capital of Genosha."  
  
Every once in a while, the house will run out of a certain item. Then someone, usually Remy or St. John, but occasionally Sabertooth, will hop into the rusting blue truck and drive to the capital city, an hour away. The trip always ends up being an all-day adventure, the one undertaking it coming home dusty and exhausted.  
  
"It's on the coast, like we are," St. John told her once. "But there're a lot of ports. It used to be that Genosha was wealthy from all the importin' and exportin', the ships that'd stop for supplies on their way to somewhere else. People worked by repairin' ships, buildin' ships, had inns and brothels for the sailors. But now more an' more is bein' sent by plane, an' Genosha's, y'know, obsolete. At least in the little towns, the people can get by with farmin' and fishin'. Everyone in the city is destitute."  
  
It's a grim, sad picture. But when one of the boys drives off in that beat-up old pile of junk, Rogue watches from her window and wishes she was going too. It would mean leaving this house and playing at being free, even for just a few hours. She wants to be able to pretend. She needs to.  
  
"Will ya take me next tahm?" she begs St. John.  
  
"I don't think so," he answers, looking thoughtful and uneasy. "Didn't ya hear what I told you 'bout it? It's not exactly a nice place to go, y'know."  
  
"Nicer than this!"  
  
"Well, jeez! I know this ain't exactly Disneyland and I'm not Donald Duck, but I somehow prefer the ol' house to rubbish-filled streets and multitudes of dirty, hopeless wretches. That's just my opinion, of course."  
  
"But it's OUTSIDE," Rogue murmurs, eyes welling up with tears. She wipes them away quickly, embarrassed by the show of emotion. "It's more FREE."  
  
His stance softens at her outburst, and he sighs. "I'll see what I can do."  
  
She grins, though still red-eyed and shaky. Times like this, she knows for sure that this is her best friend, captive or not. "Thank you," she says.  
  
"Say it now," he mutters. "You might not say it when you actually see the city."  
  
***  
  
At least Remy has stopped bothering her. Honestly, he never really DID bother her, not too much, until the incident in the kitchen, but that was enough to make her keep her distance from then on. So now he doesn't make eye contact with her when they sit at the dining room table, sometimes leaves a room if she enters it. Rogue isn't exactly sure whether he's embarrassed by his outburst or angry at her for causing it, but St. John, O Mighty Protector, still watches him with a wary eye.  
  
There is a division now, though. For a little while, the group of teens, excluding the Russian and Pietro, had been growing more friendly with each other, becoming something of a clique in a tiny world where the only other options were the Basement Three and the Lone Beast. But now there is Remy, Evan, and Fred downstairs, and St. John and Rogue upstairs, with almost no interaction.  
  
The reality of that hurts her more than she could have expected it to. While she has never been the closest of friends with either Fred or Evan, inwardly she expected some loyalty. It didn't even have to be complete, maybe just a nod to her in the morning in greeting. She had been in the Brotherhood. She was (is, IS!) an X-Man. Yet they are snubbing her completely. Like she was the one who yelled, the one who bruised his wrist.  
  
Rogue wonders how things will be between them if they ever get back to Bayville. She can never forget this, just as she never forgets any slight. She still burns at the thought of the girl who pushed her into the mud in the third grade, rages on the inside over the mockery of a boy when she first started dressing like a Goth. But this seems worse. Right now, it stings more.  
  
She misses them, and they're so close.  
  
***  
  
Rogue crosses the hall from St. John's room to hers. It's getting rather late, and she's tired after reading classic literature all day. There's a lot to think about now, giant cockroaches and weak families and lost hope. Yet "The Metamorphosis" is one of the best books she's ever read.   
  
She opens her door and steps inside, a totally natural thing that requires no thinking, but this time she stops in her tracks. On the table beside her bed, propped up against the lamp, is a picture. A picture of her.  
  
Rogue slowly walks up to it and takes it in her hand, studying it closely. There's no denying that it's her, with the short hair and collar. Besides, it just plain resembles her. Done in pencil on a plain white sheet of paper, she's been made to resemble a Burne-Jones woman, with a wan face dominated by large, sad eyes and full lips. It has never occurred to her before, not in her entire life, that she could be pretty, until now.  
  
But who did this? The answer is clear - near the top in a caption in characters she can't decipher, and at the bottom is a signature in the same language.   
  
This is the work of the Russian.  
  
  
To be continued...  
  
  
**Author's Notes:  
  
greenstarlet - Here's a look of Rogue being smart. There should be more of this coming up. I hope chapter 6 eventually loaded!  
  
evolutionary spider - 1) No. 2) That's good. 3) Good question. We'll have to see. 4) I imagine that the others Evo people want to come to the rescure, but have no idea how or where they are. Magneto just picked a damn good hiding place this time.  
  
kitana - I'm pleased that you and Cyclops are happy with everything!  
  
gub/Lucky/everyone else who likes Piotr - Well, judging from how this chapter ends, there'll be more of him coming up!  
  
Randi - While I don't like my grandfather and sex stores occupying my thoughts at the same time, yes, ,he's from New Orleans. He sounds nothing like Remy did in the original cartoon, but does like a good bowl of gumbo.  
  
Phoenix - Bah! I'll make you hate Gambit yet! ;)  
  
Icy - Piotr was looking at Rogue so he could draw the picture! Hahaha, I used foreshadowing! Or something. Gambit was just really frustrated with her. He's not a completely bad guy, see. But there was no excuse for what he did, still. No means no, Remy. The basement project is a mystery, and I think St. John's room is separate because that's comfortable for him. He doesn't want to get tempted by the other guys, after all.  
  
rollo - I always thought of Gambit as rather forceful, just not in the physical sense.  
  
Christy - St. John and Rogue are not a couple, because Pyro is gay! I can understand how it might seem that way though, since they're always together. And I thought about the Piotr suggestion, but I'm not sure if I want to go about it that way. You'd think he'd get lonely and finally talk if he could, wouldn't you? Maybe it's just me.  
  
Sorry for the several day wait...computer troubles. I have no idea what's going to happen in the next chapter, but it'll be out soon. Also, remember, if you want to be on my Update Alert List, just give me your email address and I'll put you on it right away. Oh, and everyone should read "The Metamorphosis." That's an amazing work of literature.** 


	9. Making Connections and New Conflictions

Before going to sleep, Rogue props the picture of herself back up against the lamp like she found it, but then she feels like it's staring at her and she can't go to sleep. Even in the dark, she can feel it nearby. She finally reaches over and puts it in the side table's drawer, face down, but even then she can't sleep. She thinks about it for hours, the drawing having burned a permanent image of itself in her brain. Rogue knows each curving line by heart before she finally slips unknowingly into sleep.  
  
***  
  
In the morning, she awakes suddenly. The first thing on her mind is the picture, and the Russian. She's supposed to go downstairs and eat breakfast with him now. Obviously, it's not required, it never has been, but she eats breakfast with him every morning. Will he miss her if she stays where she is? Well, considering the picture, he would, apparently.  
  
She dresses slowly and pulls the portrait out of the drawer. Quietly, she leaves her room and walks downstairs, counting each step of her descent. The paper is held carefully as not to wrinkle it; though it undoubtedly disturbs her, it's a work of art and needs to be preserved.  
  
She's just outside the dining room, a hand placed flat against the door, debating whether to enter or not. This is her last chance to change her mind, after all. No one would blame her if she doesn't. Well, no one would if she actually were to tell someone. But she takes a breath and steps forward into the next room.  
  
The Russian sits at the table as usual, but when he sees her enter, his face turns red and he ducks his head. He has his bowl of cereal in front of him, and manages to continue scooping food into his mouth, even though he's apparently trying to hide himself from her, like an ostrich sticking its head in the sand.  
  
If he's embarrassed, Rogue thinks. Then why did he show up?  
  
"Um," she says, realizing again that no one even knows his name. "Hey."  
  
At the sound of her voice, he looks up reluctantly. He is still blushing fiercely, but his face retains the same serene expression he almost always wears. He sets his spoon in the bowl, neglecting his breakfast for at least a moment.  
  
Rogue holds up the picture. "Ya...ya did this?" She points at him for clarification.  
  
He stares, doing nothing, then nods slowly.  
  
She blinks a few times before saying, "Thanks. It's...beautiful."  
  
He continues to stare, the redness gradually leaving his face.  
  
"Oh!" she says, and points at herself with her thumb. "Ah'm Rogue."  
  
The Russian smiles softly and touches his big hand to his chest. "Piotr." His voice is so gentle for one so tall.  
  
She nods. "It's nice ta meet ya."  
  
Then Rogue goes into the kitchen and fixes her own breakfast. She comes back in and sits down to eat, like she always does.  
  
***  
  
"He drew this?" St. John asks later that day, staring down at the portrait.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"He's talented."  
  
"Makes ya look real pretty...for a girl, that is."  
  
"Hey!"  
  
"Y'know I'm only kiddin'."  
  
"Oh, AH know...ah've seen how ya look at that photo a Michelangelo's David in that art book..."  
  
His faces turns red. "That is only an appreciation for fine art! Not all of us can actually BE art, Rogue."  
  
She looks down at the picture again, just as she's done a hundred times. "Ah wish ah could really talk ta him, find out why he drew me."  
  
"Well, there aren't exactly a lot of people to draw here."  
  
"So why me? Ah haven't been here as long as the rest a ya."  
  
St. John snorts. "Well, THAT'S obvious. You're a girl. He thinks your cute."  
  
She shakes her head. "Naw."  
  
"Jeez, Rogue. You're kinda stupid sometimes, y'know?"  
  
***  
  
Rogue sits outside on the back doorstep, a copy of "The Metamorphosis" in her lap. While her attention is caught up in it, she glances up from time to time to watch Mr. McCoy bound across the yard, trying to expel all of his energy. Even doing this for hours, she knows he doesn't feel satisfied. Sometimes he stops and stares into the lawn carefully, studying some unseen entity, then darts off even faster than before.  
  
Now he meanders over to her in his lumbering way, unconsciously dragging his knuckles and breathing a bit heavily. He cocks his head at her and smiles.  
  
"'The Metamorphosis' - good choice."  
  
"Thanks," Rogue replies. "Ah lahk it."  
  
"You know," Mr. McCoy says, staring at the cover. "People say that when Kafka was writing about Gregor Samsa, he used himself as the model."  
  
"Kafka was a big bug?"  
  
He chuckles. "No, not exactly. He might have felt like one, though, a freak in a world of normals. Also, maybe he felt like he was being used, like Gregor was before he changed." He looks off into the distance and frowns slightly. "That when his literary merits were no longer pleasing to the public, he'd be seen as useless and..." He pauses. "You haven't finished, have you?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Well then, I'll just have to refrain from ruining the ending."  
  
"Ya've thought a lot about it."  
  
"Yes." He looks down at himself, his awkward blue-furred body and sighs. "Sometimes I can identify with Gregor Samsa, too."  
  
***  
  
She finds a note on her pillow that night before bed, a small yellow scrap of paper folded once in the middle.  
  
This must be my day for bedroom surprises, she thinks wryly as she unfolds it.  
  
It reads:  
  
'Rogue - I'm sorry. Do you hate me? I understand if you do, after everything that's happened.'   
  
She sighs shakily, closing her eyes as she does so. She doesn't want to read anymore, doesn't want to read anything bad. But of course she opens her eyes again:  
  
'Please understand that even though you might not like this, and maybe even I don't like this, he's my father. I'm tied to him that way. I can't explain it.'  
  
The same song he always sings. There is more:  
  
'But I just want to write again that I AM sorry. I've been having trouble saying it. Obviously, you know that already. That's just me.'  
  
And that is him, the classic him.  
  
'I'm sorry for everything. Love, Pietro.'  
  
Rogues falls asleep wondering just what he meant by 'love.'  
  
  
To be continued...  
  
  
**Author's Notes:  
  
Lucky - I'd beat the crap out of them, too. Jerks.  
  
evolutionary spider - 1) I think it's a little of both possibilities. 2) Yeah, he's pretty much out of the running. 3) They have a casual friendship, but Fred and Evan are easily influenced by the more cunning and charming Gambit. 4) Magneto and Pietro are building the world's largest burrito. Just kidding, it's a secret!  
  
kitana - Well, here's more Piotr fluffiness! Happy to oblige.  
  
Icy - Like I stated earlier, Evan and Fred are easily influenced by Gambit. Also, Remy's just a cool guy. If I were in there position, I'd probably rather hang out with him too. The answers to what Piotr does and why he only eats cereal are coming up at some point, though they're not overly special or earth-shattering. Yes, Magneto knows about St. John's sexuality, because he's so darn perceptive. And here's a wee bit of Rietro, just for you!  
  
Phoenix - I will never be converted! NEVER! And while that was the outcome of my fighting with my muse (and this chapter too), they came out slow compared to the rest of the fic thus far. But at least now I have the college excuse that you use sometimes! How'dya like THEM apples?!  
  
greenstarlet - Fanfiction addiction is a good thing! I'm proud to be your instigator.   
  
Umi wave - THANK YOU! I loved it when Piotr and Rogue kinda had a thing going in the comics - they even slept together (maybe).  
  
firebird16 - I have no idea whose clothes Rogue is wearing, but they definitely don't fit. For some reason, I'm thinking they're Pyro's old things. No, she doesn't have anything that's hers, and she will get to the city eventually. Maybe next chapter. Or not.  
  
the great misanthrope! - Gah, don't remind me.  
  
Gub - I wouldn't say he's controlling them with empathy or anything, just being himself, which is captivating.  
  
dReAmWaTcHeR18 - Oh Tracey, I didn't tell you this when you mentioned it to me the other day, but your review made me cry. Your opinion really means a lot to me. Thank you for it and for being one of my best friends. God, I'm not usually so mushy, but it needed to be said.  
  
In other news, I'm glad I may have gotten a couple people reading Kafka! I feel so proud - me, a good influence? Who knew? On a more depressing note, I start college very very soon, and will be leaving the state this weekend. Since I have this silly idea that college will be hard, I can say with some certainty that this fic will not be updated as diligently as it used to be. I'm sorry for those of you who are addicted, but fanfiction writing unfortunately doesn't pay very well, so I need to get me a degree and become an archeologist. Yes, I'm serious. But believe me, I don't plan on abandoning "Something." I don't think it's even close to ending yet...*sigh* ** 


	10. Questioning

Pietro is no longer even a blur passing through the hall sometimes. Rogue watches out the window to the garden where she last saw him, but he's never there. She asks St. John where his bedroom is, and he doesn't know. She thinks of the skinny, silver-haired boy, so tired and alone, and despite everything she misses him. But it feels like he's been lost…at least to her.  
  
***  
  
Somewhat grudgingly, St. John has allowed Piotr into their friendship…to an extent. They eat together at dinner, and every once in a while they'll all sit outside on the grass, Rogue and St. John talking while Piotr is silent, just smiling and listening. But even though he hasn't made one questionable move, St. John is wary of him.  
  
"I don't know about 'im, Rogue. This continued silence of his bothers me."  
  
"Ya were the one who said he couldn't speak English!" Rogue exclaims. "So how come yer pretendin' ya just figured it out right now?"  
  
"Well, silence is okay is you're not hangin' out with 'im anyway! But when you talk to him everyday and he's part of your quasi-clique, it's weird! You can't blame me there. I mean, he should be pickin' up SOME of the language by now, y'know?"  
  
"How can ya just pick up a language? Ah think he'd need some Russian to back it up, if he were really learnin'."  
  
St. John shakes his head in defiance. "A few words, a phrase or two! If a guy's hearin' only English for as long as this one has, he has to pick up SOMETHIN'. It just doesn't make sense otherwise."  
  
Rogue rolls her eyes. "Jeez, yer jumpy this mornin'. What, a dingo eat yer baby?"  
  
His eyes widen. "Shut up! A dingo really ate my baby sister!"  
  
Her mouth drops open. "Oh mah God! Yer serious?"  
  
"Sheesh, no. You're so gullible."  
  
She punches his shoulder. He punches right back.  
  
"Hey!" she shouts. "Yer not supposed to hit a girl!"  
  
"What, but you can hit me whenever it catches yer fancy? That's not exactly equality, y'know."  
  
"Jerk."  
  
"Yep."  
  
***  
  
Later in the night, there's a knock on Rogue's door. She is lying on her bed, reading Sir Thomas More's "Utopia." Briefly, she glances up.  
  
"Come in," she says, knowing the list of possible visitors to her room is short.  
  
The door opens and St. John walks in.   
  
"Hi," he says. He goes over to her closet and opens it, then rifles through, scowling.   
  
"Hey, get outta there!" Rogue yells. She sits up and frowns.  
  
"Do you have comfortable shoes?" he asks, ignoring her completely. "And pants that fit decently?" His head pops out of the closet for a moment to look her up and down. "Unlike THOSE ones, I mean."  
  
"Like ah really have a selection," she mutters.  
  
"Well, do you?"  
  
"Yeah, St. John. Why?"  
  
"Because first thing tomorrow we're goin' to the city."  
  
"What?!" she cries. She throws her book down and swings her legs over the side of the bed. "Ya talked to him for me?!"  
  
He grins. "Yeah. Well, actually, no. I talked to Sabertooth, who talked to Magneto. Magneto then thought about it, and told Sabertooth, who talked to me again. So, to make a short story long – it was a process. But yeah, you're goin'. So we have to get your clothes situated now." He starts pulling out random shirts and sweaters, though really there are very few. "You need something loose, but not loose enough to trip over. Nothing too nice or you'll get robbed. Nothing too, uh, flattering, or…well, just don't."  
  
"What about this?" Rogue asks. She fingers the metal collar around her neck.  
  
"Hmmm. Got a scarf?"  
  
"Ah think so."  
  
"You'll make a fashion statement then. All the better, really."  
  
She stands up and starts sorting through the clothes, staring at each article critically, like she never has before. Since he's stressing the importance of her outfit so much, it must be absolutely perfect. Nothing will inhibit her chance at finally getting out of the house. She needs to feel free, if only for a few hours. Nothing will stop it from happening.  
  
Rogue holds up a baggy, navy blue sweater. "This?"  
  
St. John glances at it and nods. "Fine."  
  
"An' the pants an' the shoes? That'll be all right?"  
  
"Sounds like it."  
  
She breaks into an uncharacteristic grin, wide and ecstatic. "Yer the best, St. John."  
  
"Yes. That is true. Now, if only some attractive male models shared that opinion…"  
  
"Well – "  
  
"Please don't comment on that. Leave me my hope." He rolls his eyes and laughs. "Not all of us can have silent giants in the house who're dedicated to creating our portraits."  
  
"Shut up."  
  
His face contorts into mock outrage. "Well! This, to the guy who's arranged for your holiday to Hammer Bay? Kids these days, no gratitude…"  
  
"Haha…" she replies, but realizes suddenly that she doesn't quite no how she feels about the idea of Piotr liking her…that way. She's not overly well-versed in the concept of crushes. But before she can ponder on the subject further, St. John continues:  
  
"But, uh, Rogue? There's one more thing…" He looks sheepish, as if he doesn't know WHY he has to say whatever he's going to say. "I've basically been told, just so you know, that if you're to run off and get away…well, I'm dead, y'know? Literally. So, if you'd oblige me by NOT doing that…"  
  
Rogue laughs uneasily. "Don't worry."  
  
"Heh…good."  
  
It disturbs Rogue that the thought of running away hasn't even entered her mind in a long time. Shouldn't she be planning some escape, get back to Bayville with Evan, Fred, and Mr. McCoy? Of course she should. It's only natural. In fact, it's obviously expected that she'd want to leave.  
  
Leave Piotr.  
  
Leave St. John.  
  
Leave Pietro.  
  
Rogue frowns, troubled.  
  
  
To be continued…  
  
  
**Author's Notes:  
  
Bobbie – I'm…captivating? Wow, even though you're obviously talking only about my writing style, I feel so pretty now…  
  
Randi – 1) Probably. 2) I don't know. It doesn't seem like he actually would. 3) Eventually. 4) No comment at this time.  
  
evolutionary spider – If they were really building a giant burrito, I'd say something has gone seriously wrong in Magneto's cabeza, though I'm sure it would be absolutely delicious. And I hope you like Kafka! He rocks. Rogue's reading "Utopia" right now because I'm going to have to this semester…and for other reasons too.  
  
Phoenix – Oh yes, I know now. And it's only just the second week of class.  
  
Rina – Soon enough for you?  
  
Umi Wave – Awww, thank you! There's nothing cooler than seeing your name on someone's favorites list. It's like, "Ooh! I'm popular!"  
  
starched-undergarments – Well, I disagree, which is obvious considering the whole fic, and a few of my other works, is written in the present tense. Why? I like it. It makes more sense to me and lends a degree of urgency to the plot. Only works in the first person? Why would that be true? So – no! I reject your attempt at altering my signature writing style.   
  
Darkfire – Interesting idea. But would he be a reliable translator, considering that Piotr likes Rogue?  
  
theroguepheonix – I'm flattered. :)  
  
Icy – I liked that bit with Michelangelo's David too. No one else commented on it. Thank you!  
  
dReAmWaTcHeR18 – No, it was a good cry! Honest!   
  
Yes, well, this is the first chapter coming to you all from Indiana. I guess that's…good? I dunno. Chapters will continue to come at a less than quickly basis, considering it took me THIS long and I don't really even have a lot of work to do yet. Once again, I hope you're liking this…** 


	11. False Freedom

Early in the morning, Rogue wakes up and gets ready for the trips. She slips on the loose, comfortable clothes St. John recommended the night before, then adds an old coat and a scarf. It's cool enough by the sea that it won't seem too odd to have so many layers on. She peers at herself critically in the mirror before she leaves the room. The metal collar around her neck is hidden well enough, she supposes. Of course, she'd rather it just not be there at all. But there's nothing she can do about that.  
  
She walks down the stairs to breakfast. As usual, Piotr has beat her there and sits with a bowl of Corn Flakes in front of him. Rogue bypasses him for the moment and heads into the kitchen, reemerging with only an apple. He looks up at her and frowns with concern, gesturing towards his own meal for lack of words to question her.  
  
"Ah can't eat NOW. Ah'm goin' ta the city today," she answers his silent inquiry.  
  
He raises an eyebrow.  
  
"Ah'm too excited," she says, shaking her head. "Ah can't eat."  
  
Piotr sighs and stands, then goes into the kitchen. A minute or so later, he returns carrying a second bowl of cereal, which he sets in front of her.  
  
She shakes her head again. "Ah can't – "  
  
He interrupts her with a stern point at the food, and returns to his breakfast.  
  
Rogue stares at the meal for a moment, then shrugs. She eats.  
  
***  
  
Later, Rogue and St. John are outside, readying the truck for their moderately long journey. They store a few bottles of water under the seat, some sandwiches for lunch in a bag in the glove compartment. The other mutants, save the usual mystery trio, stand off a little in distance, watching them. On Evan and Fred's faces are looks of benign jealously, while Hank is wistfully smiling and Piotr is worried. Remy is clearly feeling some resentment.  
  
"Don' know why de new girl get ta go…" he says, crossing his arms.  
  
"Well, if I remember right," St. John responds cheerfully. "Last time you went, you were nearly arrested for shop-liftin'.  
  
"Only 'cause ya give me away," Remy shoots back.  
  
St. John snorts. "Idiot! You were tryin' to steal a damn turkey! Like it wasn't obvious!"  
  
"A turkey?" Fred repeats in disbelief.  
  
"Maybe under his trench coat…" Evan offers doubtfully.  
  
"The turkey was alive," St. John clarifys.  
  
"What?!"  
  
"Woulda gotten 'way wit' it…" Remy mutters darkly.  
  
"Why'd you want a live turkey?"  
  
Remy shrugs. "Practice."  
  
St. John rolls his eyes and places his hand on Rogue's shoulder. "Time to go," he says.  
  
They climb into the truck and slam the doors behind them. St. John, in the driver's seat, turns the key in the ignition and belts himself in; following his lead, Rogue does the same, then glances out to the others being left behind.  
  
"Bye…" Fred says glumly.  
  
"Be careful," Mr. McCoy calls.  
  
Piotr, separate from the others, standing on the porch, raises his hand in a silent goodbye. In response, Rogue lifts her own hand and gives a small smile before, from somewhere deep inside the house, the gate was lowered just long enough for the truck to pass through and out onto the old dirt road.  
  
***  
  
The drive seems longer than it should be, but that might have to do with the total lack of interesting things to look at out of the window. At first, the green grass and pretty hills and fields were charming and quaint, the wide blue ocean in the distance vast and majestic, but soon it all just starts to look the same. At one point, they take out the sandwiches and some water and eat their lunch, but it's the only break in the routine of driving.  
  
Eventually, sparse businesses, mostly selling produce and gasoline, start appearing on the side of the road, followed by tiny, ugly houses. Some of them are so dilapidated that it's obvious they haven't been occupied in a long time, while others are boarded up despite their apparent newness. Soon, the taller buildings start to peek over the landscape, all gray and black and brown. Even the sky is gray now.  
  
The road turns from dirt to pavement, but it's cracked and badly in need of repair. St. John, who turns out to be a very careful driver, slows down and manages to swerve around the bigger potholes. Rogue presses her face against the window and stares outside in fascination as they finally pull into the city of Hammer Bay.  
  
St. John finally pulls the truck to the side of the main street, which is lined with shops, some of which are also boarded up and abandoned. He stares straight ahead, surveying everyone on the street.  
  
"Okay," he says. "When we get out, I'm your boyfriend."  
  
"What?" she asks, confused.  
  
"Act like I'm your boyfriend. Hold my arm or hand or something. Stay close to me."  
  
"But…"  
  
"Just DO," St. John orders, glancing at her briefly. Then he opens the door and steps out of the truck, making sure to lock it behind him.  
  
She follows, stepping out of the last remnant of her imprisonment, except, of course, the hidden collar encasing her throat. She stares up at the sky, blue and empty and free, and nearly smiles. But then she surveys her earthly surroundings; two scruffy men stare at her with unhidden interest.  
  
Rogue takes St. John's arm, looking away from them. He scowls at the men and protectively pulls her close.  
  
"This way," he says softly.  
  
They walk arm-in-arm down the street, passing several shops, both empty and occupied. There other people as well, some working or shopping, while others just stand or sit silently on the curb, apparently lacking anything better to do. All of them glance at the two young strangers, who are better dressed and better fed than any of them. Rogue can't stand the envy flashing in their eyes.  
  
Finally, the pair duck into one shop; the door clanks shut behind them. The shopkeeper, standing behind the counter, looks at them suspiciously.  
  
"Lookin' for somethin'?" he asks.  
  
St. John nods and reaches into his jacket pocket.  
  
"I have a list," he says.  
  
He looks around and, seeing no one else in the shop that could be of menace to them, lets go of Rogue.  
  
"Don't go anywhere," he tells her as he walks over to the counter.  
  
Like you really needed to tell me, she thinks.  
  
She looks around the shop, moving slowly down the sparse aisles. The inventory seems to mostly consist of canned goods, powdered mixes, and of course boxes of cereal, things that don't go bad easily. One wall is lined with a few old-fashioned ice boxes, which no doubt are filled with the microwavable meals they subsist on. This certainly explains things. She sighs, and stands still for a moment. There is a slight tugging at her coat, and she whirls around to face a small, dirty-faced girl with her hand in Rogue's pocket.  
  
"Hey!" Rogue cries.  
  
The girl frowns, pulls her hand back, spits at the ground at Rogue's feet. Then, without saying a word, the child runs out of the shop and back onto the streets, from which she'd apparently slipped unnoticed.  
  
St. John glances at Rogue from across the shop and rolls his eyes.  
  
"Y'know, I SAID don't go anywhere."  
  
Dejected, she walks over to him, feeling slightly safer next to her friend.  
  
***  
  
Later, driving back, St. John looks at Rogue from the sides of his eyes.  
  
"So. Ya wanna come with me again next time?"  
  
Rogue is silent for a moment.  
  
"No."  
  
"Not like what ya expected?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Told ya."  
  
  
To be continued…  
  
  
***Author's Notes  
  
Phoenix – As it turns out, it is VERY hard to write and attend college at the same time. Now I have no excuse to get impatient with your updates. ;)  
  
Jalla – No Pyro/Scarlet Witch, because St. John is gay.  
  
hailey – Well, here's a shot of more of the characters for you.  
  
evolutionary spider – I stuck "Utopia" in there because I'm going to be reading later, and it was on my shelf near the computer. However, it DOES deal with a perfect society, which is what Magneto wants – a perfect society of mutants, which in the comics he tried to create via Asteroid M and Genosha. Now, for the questions…1) I dunno, but he IS alive. 2) Question answered! 3) We'll see. 4) I don't know. The X-Men are just lazy. On a personal note, damn I miss Southern California. Do you know in other parts of the country it gets cold in October?  
  
kitana – Don't worry, this fic won't be done for a while…  
  
Sorry this one took SOOOO long, everyone. A college schedule plus work plus a meager social life equals little fic-writing time. So, to make up for it, this chapter is a little longer than average. Yay…? Hopefully, from now on I'll be able to make small updates at a quicker pace…it'll help if I get some nice feedback! 


	12. An Accident

Time has passed. Winter is coming now, and naturally Genosha is growing colder. The fog rolls in thicker each morning, and hovers far into the day; one can taste it sometimes even at twilight, lingering in the garden still. The sky stays gray, colorless, and dark, carrying a chilling wind that cuts like a knife and is as cold as its steel blade. And then, on some days and nights, there's the rain, so chill it's nearly sleet and pounds now incessantly in torrents. The entire world, all existence, is beginning a slow and painful death, it seems.  
  
And yet, inside the gated house, it's warm sometimes.  
  
* * *  
  
"Check mate," St. John says for the seventh time in less than two hours.  
  
Rogue peers down at the board to make sure he's correct in his declaration. When it appears as such, she looks back up at him, frowning.  
  
"Again."  
  
St. John groans.  
  
"AGAIN?! I'm not a robot, y'know!"  
  
"How does playin' chess with me make ya a robot?"  
  
"Never heard of the chess playin' robot?"  
  
She starts picking up the pieces and arranging them on the board.  
  
"Stop teasin' me."  
  
"I'm not! There was a chess playin' robot! It played in front of Napoleon. Well, an' others too, I guess."  
  
She makes her first move after great consideration.  
  
"Seriously?"  
  
Without even looking at the board, he moves one of his pieces.  
  
"Yeah. It wore a turban."  
  
She rolls her eyes as she makes her next move.  
  
"Oh, shut up!"  
  
"WHAT?! It did!"  
  
Just then, Mr. McCoy bursts in from the yard, shaking the rain off his fur. He tramps across the room, passing the chess board. He glances at it briefly and steps back, reaching out one huge hand to move one of St. John's figures.  
  
"Check mate," he says distractedly, and keeps going.  
  
St. John leans back, laughing.  
  
"Dammit!" Rogue cries.  
  
* * *   
  
Rogue is posed on the couch, her hand touching her temple. Piotr sits in front of her, a pad of paper in his hands. His eyes dart over at her from time to time, pencil flying over the paper the a duck diving into water. This attention no longer bothers her...as long as it comes from him. Only him.   
  
"Ah dun' know how ya can stand it. Not bein' able ta talk ta 'nyone."  
  
He nods distractedly, gaze fixed on the page.  
  
"Must be terrible. Bet yer lonely."  
  
He continues his work, humming under his breath.  
  
"Ah mean, yer here an' all, with all these people, hearin' 'em talk, but ya can't un'erstand 'em. Ya can hang out with me an' St. John, but what's the use o' it if ya can't talk back ta us?"  
  
He glances up at her.  
  
"But at least ya got some friends now. St. John tol' me that ya used ta just creep aroun' alone like a big shadow or sumthin'. All alone. Even worse than not talkin'."  
  
He tilts his face, watching her.  
  
"But who could ya talk ta? Magneto an' Sabertooth? Yeah, rahgt. Lahk havin' the biggest school bullies bein' yer best pals."  
  
He points at his face, then raises his chin, indicating that she should do the same. She does, and Piotr returns to drawing.  
  
"Who else? Pietro? He's lahk a ghost o' himself now. Ya'd hardly ever see 'im if he even did get off his high horse an' talk ta ya."  
  
He lifts his pencil, and considers the drawing. He looks up and sighs, lifting his chin again and pointing.  
  
"Sorry." Rogue shifts her face again. "Then there's Remy. Ah don' trust 'im as far as ah can throw 'im, that one. Ah guess ya don' really lahk 'im either. Ah don' think he's too bad, on the inside, but still..."  
  
He appears to be ignoring her prattling steadily, just sketching.  
  
"Ah really don' know why ya an' St. John didn't make friends earlier. Maybe ya were just too shy."  
  
He looks up, sighs, and points again. She lifts her chin.  
  
"An' now who ya got? Evan an' Freddy? They're nahce guys, usu'lly, but they've changed. They're keepin' ta themselves now. It's lahk ah don' even know 'em any more."  
  
He points again. She lifts her chin, but only half-way.  
  
"Mr. McCoy too...he belongs ta whatever's outside now."  
  
A point. This time, it goes ignored.  
  
"Ah'm not even mahself. If ah ever get back, they won't know me."  
  
Piotr sighs and shakes his head.  
  
"Like THIS," he says in a voice thick with accent, and lifts his chin.  
  
"Oh, okay."  
  
Rogue starts to do as she's told, then freezes. Slowly, she turns to look at him.  
  
"EXCUSE me??"  
  
His wide eyes match hers.  
  
"Der'mo," he mutters.  
  
* * *   
  
Long Authors Note...  
  
MBLite - Rietro? Maybe. Anything is possible.  
  
Gub - I might as well have stopped writing...  
  
SMJW - Why thank you. It's important to me that St. John be written realistically and well, so I'm grateful that people appreciate this. Hopefully, there will be more Fred, Evan, and Remy in the next chapter, and maybe a bit of Pietro too. As for the escape, we'll see in the future...  
  
BR/Darkfire - Err, well, at least I DID update!  
  
LotusPen - Ah yes, the application process is a bitch, but I'm sure you did just fine. I chose to move to Indiana because my school is one of the few in the country with my specific major (Archaeology). And while I do miss California, I've come to like it a lot. Hope you enjoyed this Piotr bit.  
  
kitana - Here you go! Sorry for the wait...  
  
evolutionary spider - To the first question - Perhaps, I'm not completely sure. And to the second - Yes, he is. And what's with having cold whether during winter break here? Damn you El Nino!  
  
Deserai - The other X-Men are stupidly twiddling their thumbs off somewhere. As for the basement, we'll find out what's going on as soon as I figure it out myself. Haha, just kidding...or am I?  
  
I am soooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo sorry about the length of time between updates. Frankly, I'm rather embarrassed by it, especially since at the beginning I was updating every other day. But some of you will find that when you have to write a whole bunch of papers for classes, writing for fun just isn't so fun anymore. But I will NOT give up! I'll try to write at least a little every week from now on, so something more can be accomplished here. To reward those of you still with me, I used this chapter to get to the mystery of silent Piotr - sort of. (At the end, he says something like "Shit" by the way.) Maybe the little cliffhanger will inspire me to keep going, and quickly. Thanks to all of you who've been bothering me for this! My New Years Resolution is to do better with this, I promise! 


	13. A Silence Ends

"Why did'n' ya say 'nything?" Rogue asks in a whisper, arms wrapped securely around her knees.  
  
Piotr stares at her silently, his gentle eyes filled with pain and concern.  
  
"Ah mean, ya just let me talk on an' on lahk some IDIOT. It's lahk ya TRICKED me."  
  
He watches her, head cocked, carefully following what she is saying.  
  
"Why for? Ya reportin' everything ah say ta Magneto?"  
  
His head snaps up, and he shakes it vigorously.  
  
"Net!"  
  
"What's that mean?"  
  
"Net," he repeats, then pauses, considering it. "No," he says finally, in his thick voice. "No, I am not."  
  
"Then why?"  
  
Piotr goes silent again for a long time, and Rogue realizes that it must take him some time to think about just what she is saying, to form the question into his own language, answer it, then translate a response. She thinks about how it would be if the situation were reversed and everyone was speaking Russian around her, and through her anger she finds compassion for her friend.  
  
"I don't...like them. If I cannot...speak to them, they do not speak to me," he finally says.  
  
"Who?"  
  
"Magneto..Sabertooth...the others. I don't LIKE them."  
  
"Why be a parta this team if ya don' lahk 'em?"  
  
His brow is furrowed, eyes darting about quickly as he processes this.  
  
"My sister Illyana. She is..."   
  
He makes a small sound of irritation and holds his hand to his chest.  
  
"She hurts. Inside."  
  
Rogue sighs.  
  
"Ya mean she's sick?"  
  
Piotr nods, relief flooding his face.  
  
"Yes. He pays."  
  
Rogue does not need to ask who 'he' is, nor for what he pays.  
  
"Okay," she starts slowly. "So ya're in this team 'cause Magneto pays fer ya sister's treatment. Ya don' talk 'cause ya don' lahk any of 'em."  
  
He nods.  
  
"Ya knew English the whole time?"  
  
He shakes his head slowly.  
  
"Ya learned?"  
  
He nods.  
  
She can't help but be impressed that he was able to pick up this much of the language just be observation. Then again, she really doesn't know how long he's been here.  
  
"Then..." She hesitates. "Then why didn' ya tell me?"  
  
Inside she already knows the answer. Piotr didn't know her when she first arrived. There had been no guarantee that she could be trusted. When it had become clear that she was honestly a friend, how could he tell her that he'd been deceiving her all this time? Of course she wouldn't understand. Yet, somehow, she does.  
  
If Rogue could have tricked everyone into not talking to her when she first arrived, she would have.  
  
Piotr smiles slowly.  
  
"Because I don't like YOU," he answers thickly, but his rueful tone and grin assure her that he's teasing.  
  
She's hugging him before either of the two realizes it.  
  
* * *   
  
"Connect Four!" Fred cries triumphantly, pointing a meaty finger at the game.  
  
Remy stares at the upright gameboard in disbelief, eyes searching through the red and black game pieces for proof.  
  
"Non..." he mutters. "Where?"  
  
"Right there!"   
  
Fred points to a diagonal connection of his four black checkers.  
  
"Non!" Remy groans, then pauses. "Oh, diagonal don' count."  
  
"What?!"  
  
"In de rules, mon ami. Gotta be horizontal or vertical."  
  
"Lemme see 'em then!"  
  
"Lost 'em. Sorry."  
  
Fred looks around wildly before his eyes latch onto Evan.  
  
"Evan, is that true? Diagonals don't count?"  
  
Across the dining room table, Evan hesitates, then shrugs.  
  
"I don't know, man. I don't know the rules that good. I THINK they count."  
  
Fred turns back to Remy.  
  
"He THINKS..."  
  
"Thinkin' ain't good enough."  
  
Fred starts to refute this, then sighs heavily.  
  
"Let's just keep goin' with this game."  
  
Remy nods. Carefully, he drops a red checker into a slot. Fred picks up a black one and does the same, then lifts his arms into the air excitedly.  
  
"Connect Four!"  
  
"Non!"  
  
Fred points to a horizontal row of black pieces. He grins from ear to ear.  
  
"Oh, ah forgot. Horizontal don' count either."  
  
"WHAT?!"  
  
From the corner, Rogue shifts in her chair, stifling laughter.   
  
* * *  
  
Outside, Rogue sits with Mr. McCoy in comfortable silence. There are crickets around, chirping idly, even though the sky is only barely starting to darken around the edges. A chill breeze blows in from the sea, and she pulls her coat tightly around her body, shivering. Mr. McCoy, protected by his thick blue hide, is unaffected.  
  
It's nice to sit here with him, she thinks. Of all of them, he seems to be the only one who really hasn't changed too much. The only one to eschew the possibility of new friendship with their captors. The only one, probably, who didn't feel like a traitor to the X-Men.  
  
"So, you're friends with that Russian boy?" he asks suddenly, as if reading her mind.  
  
She blushes.  
  
"Uh, yeah. He seems real nahce."  
  
"Yes, he does."  
  
There is silence again. It feels awkward, but Rogue does not know why. A few minutes go by.  
  
"I need to tell you something," Mr. McCoy says when he finally speaks again, in a voice that is barely a whisper.  
  
She blinks, startled by the urgency in his voice.  
  
"What?"  
  
"You see that post over there?"  
  
She follows his gaze.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"That's one of the boundaries for the forcefield."  
  
"Ya told me."  
  
"I know. But that one's important. That's our ticket out of here."  
  
To be continued...  
  
*** Long Author's Note:  
  
Phoenix - Is a Rogue/Piotr hug good enough?  
  
Randi - I'll just call you Sherlock Holmes. ;)  
  
archmagus - Magneto's at Taco Bell. Naw, I dunno. Doing important stuff, I suppose.  
  
Shadow - Thank you for the compliments and the offer of help! Yeah, me no so good at this use of other language stuff. I'd hoped that Russian would be difficult enough that no one would catch mistakes, but you proved that hope false! Curse you! Not really.  
  
evolutionary spider - I hope Piotr's explanation is good enough for you, and everyone else.  
  
J. Dax - I LIVE for Remy bashing.   
  
kitana - Any sort of sports season is hell at my house, so I can relate. My brothers and father love all sports, and I hate all. It's hard to compromise. But I was also blessed with a dad and little bro who watch Evo with me. See how conflicted I am?  
  
blue - Why thanks! *blush*  
  
(I wanted to individually comment on more of these, but I spontaneously feel giddy and restless...I must skip ahead. Sorry guys.)  
  
Okay. I suck. I know I suck. I feel absolutely wretched for just letting my little epic linger on, not quite dying, but certainly not progressing. I am a terrible, irresponsible writer, and I deserve none of you awesome people who might still care about this fic and give me such wonderful reviews. However, having time to focus on school gave me a 4.0 for my first year of college! When I am a famous archaeologist, perhaps I will discover a temple complex and name it the SBS (Something Beyond Seeing) Ziggurat or whatever. In honor of you guys. Not me. Well, maybe me too, but just a little.  
  
In order to beg forgiveness, I went on with the Explanation, and then did what a lot of people have asked for - a glimpse of Remy, Evan, and Fred. Then I threw in some Hank too, because it leads yet ANOTHER cliffhanger that'll aid the next chapter. Which WILL happen this month. If it doesn't, I give any reader in the Orange County or Los Angeles, CA area to come to my home and beat the living crap out of me. Then I will give him/her a Red Cross apron.  
  
Thank you, all who were so kind as to badger me, insult me, and guilt me into writing again. I appreciate it immensely. 


	14. Plans and Epiphanies

Rogue's head jerks back as if she were slapped.  
  
"WHAT?"  
  
Mr. McCoy glances over at her, shaking his head slightly.  
  
"Shhh!" he hushes. He clears his throat, then continues, "There are several of those posts around the premises. They not only set the boundary lines, but it's from them that the actual force field emanates. If we could get rid of those, we could make a run for it."  
  
Her stomach sinks, and there's a sickening feeling climbing in her throat.  
  
"But we can't. We couldn't do it without Magneto seein'."  
  
"Maybe we could do it quickly."  
  
"But how? Wouldn't ya have ta rewire 'em or somethin'?"  
  
"Not necessarily," Mr. McCoy answers with another shake of his head. "We could just divert all the power momentarily. Overload the system while we jump through."  
  
"How could we do that?"  
  
"I think it would work if someone could withstand the force of holding onto one of the posts. All the energy would be focused on that person. If my observations are correct, it would short-circuit the system after a bit of time, just long enough for us to pass through without being stung TOO badly."  
  
"But no one could handle that power! It'd kill 'em after more'n a minute."  
  
"It'd a kill a person after far less than a minute."  
  
"Then see? It can't work, Mr. McCoy. It'd have to be somethin' inanimate divertin' the shock."  
  
"The forcefield would shrug off an inanimate object in a second. We need some time for the energy to start weakening. A person could latch on and take hold."  
  
"Until they die," she mumbles.  
  
"They don't HAVE to die, Rogue. Not if they're inorganic."  
  
"What're ya...?"  
  
In a sudden flash of coherence, she remembers Piotr, his body becoming covered in metal plates.  
  
"Oh mah God," she whispers.  
  
"He's not inanimate, but he's inorganic!" Mr. McCoy says softly, but with excitement. "I think he could give us the necessary time and survive."  
  
"But..." She swallows the growing lump in her throat. "If he helps us, they'll KILL 'im."  
  
"He could come with us, Rogue. It's actually better that way. I don't know how long we'll last on the run from this place; a person with free-using powers would be of great help if..." He hesitates. "If we have to fight."  
  
"Yeah," Rogue murmurs, distracted.  
  
She thinks of gentle Piotr, who doesn't want to be here at all. She thinks of his faceless sister, faraway and depending on whatever assistance Magneto is providing. Will she die without it? Or will she and the rest of his family suffer for Piotr's betrayal in some other way?  
  
"Will you talk to him, Rogue?" Mr. McCoy asks, intruding into her thoughts.  
  
She blinks.  
  
"He...he doesn't speak English."  
  
"He has to know SOMETHING. Just talk to him. Maybe he can understand enough to get the gist of it. If you can trust him, that is. Do you think you can?"  
  
"Ah'll have ta...think 'bout it."  
  
"All right," he sighs.  
  
And silence reigns again, chasing into the yard on the coattails of dark.  
  
* * *   
  
"Have ya ever considered the spoon?" St. John asks.  
  
They sit at the dining room table the next morning. Rogue, as usual, ate her breakfast hours earlier with Piotr, but today she keeps her other friend company as he slurps at his bowl of cold cereal. She looks up blankly and stares at him.  
  
"'Scuse me?"  
  
"The spoon," St. John repeats. "Ever thought about it?"  
  
"Um, not really. Should ah've?"  
  
"It just makes no sense, y'know? Human beings spent thousands of years eatin' just fine with just their fingers. Why overcomplicate things? Seems like a case of 'if it ain't broke, don't fix it.' But here we go an' fix it. Supposedly."  
  
"Maybe," Rogue replies slowly. "The spoon was invented ta make it easier ta eat some thangs."  
  
"But that goes against instinct, in my opinion. If we started out eatin' finger foods, why would we even start tryin' things we couldn't handle? Why would it ever occur to us to eat somethin' like if meat an' plants do just fine?"  
  
"Ah've never thought've it lahk that," she answers. "Ah don' spend enough tahm thinkin' 'bout silverware, ah guess."  
  
St. John snorts and shovels another mouthful of cereal into his mouth.  
  
"Savage. Whatta they teach ya at that school of yours then?"  
  
He swallows and is thus able to once again speak clearly.  
  
"No wonder ya don't wanna go back."  
  
She freezes. When she finally does move, it's only her eyes shifting to rest on him, narrowed. He blithely continues his meal.  
  
"What'd ya say?" she asks quietly.  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
"Why would ya think ah don' wanna go back?" Her voice hardens.  
  
His eyes widen almost imperceptibly, and Rogue knows he has suddenly realized that he's made an error.  
  
"Well, um - "  
  
"Ah didn' say that. EVER. Why would ya THINK that?!"  
  
"Jeez, I didn't mean - "  
  
"What DO ya mean then?"  
  
Rogue stares at him, frowning and angry. St. John swallows hard, then slowly answers:  
  
"It's just that ya don't talk so much about goin' back. Not 'nymore, at least."  
  
Her glare is steady, but inside she feels ill. He's right, of course. She's not thinking about being reunited with the other X-Men - wherever they are, whatever they're doing - so often. She's certainly not talking about it. The desperate need for rescue has left her since friends entered her life and complicated the situation.   
  
Rogue is no better than Fred and Evan, really. She has abandoned them emotionally just as they have her; it just took her a little longer to do it.  
  
For the first time since they arrived here, she understands them. And she hates it.  
  
Without any further words to St. John, Rogue stands up and flees the room, the hall, up the stairs, another hall, to her room. Her room. Quietly, she shuts the door and sits down to cry.  
  
To be continued...  
  
**Surprisingly, Not Long Author's Note:  
  
NiteQueen - I wouldn't put anything past Magneto.  
  
Pyromaniac - *beams* I love St. John and Piotr. Did you see them in X2?!?! *drools* However, I like Remy too. Just not with Rogue. I prefer him as a ladies man, but if he's with Rogue, he'd have to be faithful. A faithful Gambit is not a fun Gambit, in my opinion.  
  
Hmm, not too many personal comments this chapter. I'm trying to cut back anyway. Of course, I also didn't get as many reviews as I normally do, but that's to be expected. My punishment for going away so long, I suppose. But I DID manage to get this one out during the month of May, as promised, though only barely. Hope you guys enjoy! I also hope I can get the next chapter out relatively quickly, as I have absolutely NO idea what's happening in it... 


	15. Last Chance

Later in the evening, when Rogue finally opens the door to emerge from her room, St. John is standing across from it in his own doorway, looking lost and anxious. Before she can say anything or even react, he blurts out:  
  
"I'm sorry! I didn't mean it like that, but I can see how you'd TAKE it like that, an' I really would NEVER mean to offend you, an' - "  
  
Rogue holds up her hand, managing a weak smile.  
  
"'S okay. Not yer fault. Ah'm just bein' sensitive today. Don' feel bad."  
  
St. John still looks slightly ill.  
  
"Well, um, I'm still sorry. Y'know?"  
  
"Ah know."  
  
He shifts awkwardly from foot to foot and stuffs his hands into his pockets.  
  
"Well, do ya wanna come in? I've got some coloring books and sixty-four brilliant Crayolas. For you, I'll even try to stay inside the lines."  
  
Her smile falters slightly.  
  
"Thanks, but...there's somethin' ah gotta do raght now. Maybe later?"  
  
He cocks his head, staring at her quizzically.  
  
"Sure..."  
  
Rogue brushes past him down the hall, setting off to give someone a last chance.  
  
***  
  
No one in the house, at least no one Rogue talks to regularly, has seen the basement. The door always seems to be closed, and it's almost inconceivable that anyone would ever open it other than Sabertooth; Magneto isn't seen upstairs at all, and when his son is spotted, it's usually in the form of a flash or gust of wind. No, the door stays shut, and the mystery of what goes on behind it is one that nobody in wants to solve.  
  
At the moment, Rogue is standing directly in front of it.  
  
Her arms are crossed defiantly, brow furrowed in a scowl that hasn't been normal for several weeks, months. She makes no effort to TOUCH the door, or even stand very close to it, but she's staring at it all the same. And that's enough.  
  
It's only a matter of minutes before there's a tugging at her arm, and she's being pulled so fast that she starts to gasp. But before her lungs can be filled, the trip is over. Looking down at her, hands on his hips, is Pietro. His own frown mirrors hers.  
  
"What do you think you're doing?!" he hisses.  
  
Still in mild shock, Rogue looks around; they're standing in the shadows of the yard.  
  
"Well?" he demands. "Are you just looking for a reaction? Believe me, you DON'T want to make my father mad!"  
  
She focuses on him.  
  
"What're ya doin' in the basement?"  
  
His head whips back in surprise.  
  
"What - "  
  
"Tell me."  
  
"I can't."  
  
"What's he have planned fer us?" she goes on, without missing a beat.  
  
"You - "  
  
"Are we gonna have a choice when we fahnd out?"  
  
"Rogue..."  
  
"Why did ya betray us?"  
  
Silence. After a few beats, the breeze picks up and leaves rustle.  
  
"I didn't betray anyone," Pietro answers finally.   
  
"Ya set us up."  
  
"Yeah," he sighs, looking weary. "But the real betrayal would've been a son turning against his father."  
  
"But...but..." she stammers. "Don't ya CARE?"  
  
He stares at her quizzically.  
  
"About who?" he asks with genuine confusion.  
  
She can't help but feel hurt.  
  
"Well, 'bout the rest of the Brotherhood...an' me, maybe."  
  
"Oh." He crosses his arms. "No, of course not. I never cared. Not about them. But you...well, you were different. You've ALWAYS been different."  
  
She sighs.  
  
"So were ya."  
  
"We're not the same as them. Not the same as the X-Geeks either, or the others here." For the first time in a while, there's passion in his voice. "We're different, and it's GOOD."  
  
"But can we survive on our own, bein' different?"  
  
"Well, no." He runs his hand through his hair, fidgety. "But that's where my father comes in. It's going to be PERFECT, Rogue. The world, I mean, when his vision's come to pass. That's why I don't understand why you'd even WANT to go back, why you'd want to FIGHT it."  
  
Her frown deepens.  
  
"Ya think his vision's perfect 'cause it leads to yer own power."  
  
"But it leads to yours too. To ALL mutants, really, but especially the ones who help bring it to pass." He waves a hand in the direction of the house. "Everyone here, including you."  
  
"And ah'm not given a chance ta decide whether ah want it or not." She touches the draining collar around her neck.  
  
He looks away, shame-faced.  
  
"You'll thank us later."  
  
"Ah don't think so. Just go back ta yer all-mighty father, okay?"  
  
She turns away and begins to walk towards the place she's started to think of as home.   
  
"You think I'm just doing this for just HIM?!" Pietro screams from behind. "I BELIEVE in his vision, Rogue, and someday so will YOU! You'll SEE it!"  
  
She doesn't turn back.  
  
***  
  
When she walks into the kitchen a minute or so later, Rogue stumbles upon Evan. Oddly, he's alone, free from both Fred and Remy. He stares down at his black plastic microwavable plate and stabs a limp, bright orange carrot. She watches him, hovering along the outside of the room. After a deep breath, she steps into the brightness of artificial light.  
  
"Hi Spyke," she says.  
  
He looks up at her, surprised by the sudden voice.  
  
"Oh, hey Rogue. What's up?"  
  
"Not much."  
  
She walks over to him, leaning against the counter.  
  
"Y'know, we haven't talked in a long tahm..."  
  
To be continued...  
  
**Long Author's Note:  
  
Girl number 1 - I know I'm not writing Gambit as he's usually portrayed, but I like to think my version's a breath of fresh air from all the OOC Romy fics around. I hope other people think so too.  
  
Monkey Chan - Uh, you're welcome! I have to confess that I've read very little Evo fanfiction in the past few months; I have no idea what kind of trends have emerged and whatnot. I was unaware that St. John slash fics have turned up. And you're giving me credit for that, and I feel beyond honored.  
  
I do tend to lean towards Rietro, at least in the past. It just makes sense to me, seeing as there was a Magneto/Rogue thing in the comics. Picking it up in Evo would be impossible, so it's natural to pass on the male role to the closest person possible - his son. Is this going to become Rietro? Well, you be the judge with this chapter. Will there be ANY real romance? I thought so, and I've stated as much in previous chapters, but now I'm not sure. We'll see how it goes.  
  
amber-goddess - This review makes me feel giddy, seeing as I'm a fan of "The Lonely Ones." (Which you need to update soon, by the way.) There's nothing more fulfilling than having a writer you respect compliment you. Thanks. :)  
  
The single greatest Acolytes story? Wow. That makes me feel...I don't know. Really really good is the best way I can describe it. Also, one great thing about writing this fic is that I've found others who aren't into the whole Romy scene. I mean, I'm sure there are plenty of excellent fics of that pairing, but...eh. Not my thing. It's good to know I'm not alone in the world.  
  
St. John liking Piotr? Wow, never thought of that! It's very possible. I mean, Piotr ain't bad looking, and is a pretty nice guy...exotic with that accent, artistic...I could see it! I'm not sure, though. I need to think about it. If he does have a crush on him, it's not definitely not serious.  
  
...well, finally updated again, though I certainly did better than previous months. This time I credit my job as the reason for the lateness. I work six days a week at Knotts Berry Farm (a Southern California amusement park other than Disneyland, and manufacturer of fine jam) as a Ride Operator in Camp Snoopy, and I'm just TIRED a lot. I want to update on SBS's birthday (July 16), though, so I've got to do better.  
  
Speaking of which, if anyone wants to give SBS birthday presents of fanart, SBS-inspired ficlets or drabbles, money orders made out to its author, et cetera, PLEASE do! I'd adore it and love you forever.   
  
Oh, and I have a livejournal now. I'm under the delusion that people would like to know what I think sometimes, so I encourage people to visit it. Also, new SBS chapters will be posted there first from now on.   
  
http://www.livejournal.com/users/mizzmarvel/  
  
'Til next time! 


	16. Missing Them

It's obvious to Rogue that St. John is jealous. Now that she has begun to hang around Evan again, he's more and more likely to sit apart from the two of them, mumbling small quips under his breath in response to their conversations. She tries to bring him in, but he shrugs off every attempt with the expression of a martyr.  
  
It's even more obvious that Remy is jealous of someone horning in on his crony. He does everything he can to coax Evan back to his permanent fixture at his side with Fred, but still, on occasion, Evan strays back to Rogue.   
  
Evan is feeling much of the same things Rogue is, it turns out. There's a sense of longing for the X-Men and his family, mixed with the guilt of actually liking his forced home. Of course, she has St. John and Piotr, who, unlikely as it seemed initially, are probably the best friends she's ever had. Therefore it makes sense that she'd like it here in Genosha a bit, but she's never understood what he sees in Remy. He has to explain it to her:  
  
"He acts like a jerk sometimes, yeah but there's something about the way he talks. He'll tell a story, and by the end of it we're bustin' up laughin'. Later, when I think about it, I can never really remember what was so funny about it. Or he'll say we should do something, and Fred and me both know it can't work, but he can always talk us into it. When it's done, it HAS worked, maybe just 'cause he was in on it."  
  
Evan hesitates, then shakes his head.  
  
"I don't know. It's hard to explain."  
  
The others just don't understand this sudden stretching to loyalties, why Rogue has held out a hand and why Evan has so eagerly grasped it. They don't understand what it is to truly know loyalty, and how it feels when loyalties are severed.   
  
They don't understand how it feels to be an X-Man.  
  
***  
  
More and more now, Rogue is finding the newspapers and magazines, so casually left around the house, with articles missing. She'll read a nice little piece about a potbelly pig that saved its owner from a fire (this is the local Genoshan news, of course; nothing of real importance is ever going on in the area, at least not publicly), then turn the page to find an empty space, information precisely cut out.   
  
There's no reason to ask, really; they all know what the subject of these missing articles must be, and there's no reason to make the air even more uncomfortable.  
  
***  
  
"I wonder what they're doing," Evan says hesitantly.   
  
"Somethin' big, ah guess," Rogue replies. "Important nuff ta get inta the Genosha papers."  
  
"Yeah. You think their pictures get printed?"  
  
"Ah dunno."  
  
"Jean's, at least, probably. The camera loves her."  
  
"Well, an' Jean loves the cam'ra."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
There is a silence of more than a minute. It's still hard to talk, especially about this particular subject. Evan reaches up and tugs at his hair, which is thick now, unruly and clearly bothering him. It's a nervous habit, like Rogue fingering the collar on her throat. She wonders how he can resist doing the same.  
  
"Do...ya miss 'em?" she asks eventually.  
  
"Yeah," he says with a shrug. "My parents mostly, but Auntie O too, and the guys, and everyone else. What about you?"  
  
She sighs.  
  
"Yeah. Ah didn't think ah could, but ah do. A lot."  
  
There is a sudden shuffling sound, and Rogue looks up just in time to see St. John walk out the dining room door, where apparently he'd been standing the whole time. She moves to follow him, but instead merely shifts in her chair.  
  
***  
  
"Tell me," Rogue begins later that afternoon.  
  
The sun is high in the sky, and the breeze lacks chill. She and Piotr are enjoying the weather and their own quiet company in the garden, he with a sketchbook and pencil, she with hands empty. They needn't anything else.  
  
"Tell me 'bout yer sister."  
  
He doesn't look up from his drawing, which, from where Rogue is sitting, appears to be a large and gnarled tree.  
  
"Illyana? She is little, not as old as you or me. She has yellow hair and blue eyes."  
  
Since he's begun actually speaking English with her, although covertly, his vocabulary has improved a lot and his words are coming with greater ease. Still, at the moment, he has misunderstood her.  
  
"No, ah mean, tell me 'bout her personal'ty. How she acts."  
  
"Oh." Piotr's brow furrows; apparently, it's easier to describe the physical than the mental. "She is good. A good girl. Mostly. Sometimes she is trouble."  
  
"Well, ah guess bein' the youngest, she's allowed to cause some trouble."  
  
He smiles.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Is she yer only siblin'?"  
  
The frown returns.  
  
"'Siblin''?"  
  
"Er, ah mean, do ya have any other brothers or sisters? When ya have siblin's, ya have brothers and sisters."  
  
"Ah. I have one more...siblin'. My brother, Mikhail."  
  
"Is he older or younger?"  
  
"Older. He is home. He takes care of Illyana."  
  
"Whatta 'bout yer parents? Yer mother an' father?"  
  
Piotr eyes lower, fixed onto his drawing.  
  
"Gone."  
  
Either way, she knows she'll feel terrible, but she has to ask.  
  
"Ya mean, they left? Or they died?"  
  
"Died. We are alone."  
  
"...ah'm sorry."  
  
"I know."  
  
***  
  
Afterwards, Rogue goes back inside, climbs the stairs, and turns the corner into St. John's room. The door is open already, and he sits hunched over a notebook. Pieces of paper ripped from it are scattered all around him, the writings on them scribbled out, and there's no surprise where that pained expression on his face came from.  
  
"Hi," she starts softly.   
  
He looks up at her.  
  
"Hey."  
  
"Still wanna color?"  
  
A small, strained smile forms on his face, but she can tell it's still genuine.  
  
"Sure. Could use a break."  
  
St. John puts down the notebook and takes out some coloring books and crayons. They are without words for most of the time, but it's a comfortable quiet, one that speaks of forgiveness and understanding.   
  
Rogue uses all the brightest, boldest colors in the box to cover her page and blot out any traces of white; it's a shade she can never be fond of again.  
  
To be continued...  
  
**Not long Author's Note...  
  
Pyromaniac - Well, we'll see about Fred. I think this chapter's given a hint of where Evan's loyalties lie.  
  
amber-goddess - I HATE fics where Piotr's all violent and weird! I read one years ago, and it was so OOC that it haunts me to this day. *shudder* And for the record, I always want to give St. John a hug. ;)  
  
Now do me a favor and update The Lonely Ones.  
  
UnknownSource - Who said that she'd be leaving St. John? He could go with them. And it always astounds me when my readers predict precisely what I'd planned for next anyway; here's a little bit of insight into Piotr's past, written before you'd even reviewed.  
  
Anyway, the Author's Note isn't very long because, well, I didn't get a lot of reviews last chapter. Oh well. No matter. Mayhap that will not be the case for this one.   
  
SBS's first birthday came and went, and while I acknowledged it on my LJ, I obviously didn't update, as planned. I actually wrote my first "Pirates of the Caribbean" fic that night instead. I've written four works of fanfiction for it so far. Oh good Lord, I love that movie. I WOULD LIKE TO MARRY THAT MOVIE. Okay, enough insanity.  
  
But anyway, SBS did get a brthday present, in the form of absolutely gorgeous fanart. The wonderful Elle of Acolytes 'R' Us (which is one of two sites on which SBS resides, the other being "Wolverine and Jubilee") bestowed me with a beautiful pic of Rogue in the first chapter. I adore it. Now, I'll probably have to clean her room for the next few months, do her homework, be a surrogate mother to her unborn children, et cetera, to show my gratitude. Here's the URL so you can all see it:  
  
http://www.kyuushi.net/~acolytes/elle/rmarvel.JPG  
  
I'd have posted it on my LJ, but I'm clearly not the brightest person, and can't figure out how to do it.  
  
To wrap it up, I think I kinda know where this is going now, so hopefully, an update should be soon, in early August sometime, before I go back to school. Arrrrg. 


	17. Waiting

Sometimes Rogue wonders if they ever think about her. They, as in the X-Men – Kitty, Kurt, Jean, and the new kids. And Scott. Especially Scott, even now.  
  
Sometimes Rogue hears a howl in the distance, and her heart skips, an image of Wolverine flickering before her eyes. St. John tells her they are wild dogs that run around here in the country, but every time still, the image comes to her. Sometimes she sees the bolt of lightning streak across the sky and hears the distant roll of thunder, and for a split second KNOWS it is Storm before hope fades again, and the rain pours down in place of tears.  
  
That hope is a small, distant thing now. She much prefers sitting with her friends in the house, St. John, Piotr, and Evan, to hope, warm and comfortable next to them as she reads about America in a newspaper published an ocean away.  
  
***   
  
"Still mad at me, are ya?" St. John asks several days later, over a lunch consisting of microwaved pizza.  
  
"Fer the last tahm, NO!" Rogue groans through her mouthful.  
  
"Then why're ya yellin' at me, huh?" he retorts.  
  
"'Cause yer bein' DUMB! Ah'm not mad at ya, okay?"  
  
"How can I make it up to ya?"  
  
She sighs, shaking her head.  
  
"Oh, so I need to figure this out," St. John states with an eager nod, brow creasing in thought. "I've heard that women can be difficult like this. Now, let me think…"  
  
He taps his chin, then breaks into a smile.  
  
"Ah, I've got it! I'll marry you!"  
  
Rogue can't help but laugh.  
  
"Ya'll marry me? Nah, ah don' think so."  
  
"What?! Jeez, some people'd say I'm quite the catch."  
  
"Lahk who?"  
  
"What is this, Twenty Questions? Jeez!"  
  
Rogue toys with her food as she speaks:  
  
"Ah don' have tahm fer marriage, St. John. Ah have mah career ta think of."  
  
"That's no problem; I'll be a stay-at-home husband. Take care of the kiddies and all."  
  
"Kiddies?"  
  
"Oh yeah, I'm thinkin' we'll have seven or so. Maybe eight. I'm not sure."  
  
"Keep dreamin' Crocodile Dundee! Ah'm not ruinin' mah figure with a brood a babies!"  
  
"Fine, fine, I'll have the babies too."  
  
"Will ya?"  
  
"Of course. See what a good husband I'll be? I'm so damned giving."  
  
"Ah couldn' ask fer a better man."  
  
"Finally, you agree with me!"  
  
"But there's still a problem."  
  
"What's that?"  
  
"We've got too much in common."  
  
He snorts, waving a hand.  
  
"No such thing!"  
  
"Sure is!"  
  
"Okay, how?"  
  
Her voice lowers to a whisper.  
  
"We both like guys."  
  
St. John stares at her, silent and without motion. Then he blinks.  
  
"Foiled by logic yet again."  
  
"Mmhmm."  
  
"Okay, well, what CAN I do to make it up to you?"  
  
"Ya could gimme yer last juice box."  
  
"Rogue, Rogue," St. John scoffs, shaking his head and he leans back in his chair. "I may be willin' to marry you, but give you my last juice box? Please, I hardly know you!"  
  
***  
  
The rain is coming down and it seems as if it will never stop. The entire yard is flooded, pool-sized puddles growing wider within even the shallow recesses of grass. On Rogue's floor, beside the window, a metal pan sits to collect drops of water from the leak in the ceiling, which no one can be bothered to repair. It keeps her up at night, the constant dripping, until she takes a blanket and pillow and goes to lie on the floor beside St. John's bed. In the morning, when she staggers out of his room, bleary-eyed and slightly disheveled, Remy is in the hall for some reason. The sight of her coming out of the other boy's room makes his red eyes widen, then narrow, and in a huff he turns and storms down the stairs.  
  
She sighs. Even in Genosha, she has a bad reputation now.  
  
***   
  
"Are ya afraid for 'em?"  
  
It has not been sunny for days, and so Rogue and Piotr must take advantage of it by sitting out on the grass in the yard. But the lawn is damp to match the air, and they huddle somewhat close, bundled in scarves and sweaters.  
  
"Who?" Piotr asks.  
  
"Yer brother and sister."  
  
He thinks for a moment, rubbing at the fabric of his scarf absently.  
  
"No. They are strong."  
  
"Okay, yeah, but put 'em against Magneto…"  
  
"I mean they are strong…" He pauses. "Like WE are strong."  
  
"What do ya…?"  
  
He waves his hand vaguely around himself.  
  
"Like when I become metal. Or when you…" Piotr blushes suddenly. "I do not know what it is you do."  
  
"Ya…ya don' hafta know." She shakes her head. "Yer sayin' they're mutants?"  
  
"Yes! Mutants."  
  
"And so…"  
  
"Magneto will not hurt my siblin's."  
  
Rogue turns her face towards the electrified fence in distance. Mr. McCoy isn't in sight right now, but she knows he's nearby, somewhere, prowling, planning, waiting. Everyone on these grounds is waiting for something, palpably. But perhaps, someday, the wait will end.  
  
"What're ya stickin' 'round fer then?" she whispers.  
  
Piotr watches her serenely, his eyes luminous. Hesitantly, in his own gentle way, he covers her hand with his large one.  
  
"What is it you want?"  
  
*  
  
Author's Note  
  
First of all, I apologize profusely for the length of time it took to update. There was really no excuse for it, other than I simply got stuck. It also seems that my fics get updated the most when I have the least going on in my life, and I'm very busy with college at the moment, so that may explain it too. (Though it didn't stop me from writing other short fics…) All I can say is that I will continue to try to do better. Now, onto the review responses.  
  
Louc S. Swarm: Magneto certainly is planning something, and I think now I know what it is. Whether it involves the others remains to be seen.  
  
Tokyobabe2040: This isn't Ryro because St. John is gay, at least in SBS. But I'm glad you like how I'm writing him.  
  
kukume: I love writing in the present tense. It just makes more sense to me. I actually have the opposite problem – I often switch to present when I'm writing past tense. As for your message…  
  
Dear Elle, kukume thinks your pic of Rogue is uber cool. And so do I.  
  
edanielrya: It took me long enough, didn't it?  
  
Shadowed Tigress: Thanks. I'm a Magik-appreciator, and even though she's not going to appear physically, I like at least mentioning the little snowflake.  
  
One last note to ye all. These are things I encourage – IMing me. Friending me on Livejournal. Emails. Reviews full of rebukes. The more people on my back, and to inspire me with talk and whatnot, the faster I update. Seriously, edanielrya does a fabulous job of hounding me, but she's only one woman. Anyway, that information is on my profile. Until the next update…Merry Christmas if I miss it again! 


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